Through the Years
by The Glider Girl
Summary: Prompted by a 100 Table. Will most likely be Much centric, but shall include all the gang in later chapters! Rating subject to change.
1. Beginnings

**Note from teh G-girl:**

I was cruzing around the internets looking for some Robin 'Ood fanfiction (yes, I have fallen madly in love with the new BBC 2006 series mostly with Much, but more about that later) and I stumbled upon a livejournal community that had a something called a "100 Table" (which a fair amount of people here should be familiar with, I think) and each table had a single word for the title/theme for a piece (oneshots, I'm supposing) to be written. Sort of like a kickstart/prompt thing. So I of course went "ooo, drooly" and decided, hey! I can write my own 100 Table tales! A fic for every word! Arwsomeness!

So, in any case, here's the first one, "Beginnings." Much centric, lotsa Robin, mostly on how they met! If it seems a bit confusing, it's because part of the brief mention about Much being ill is from a full-fledged plot bunny I've yet to write, detailing how he came to serve Robin. This would be a sort of companion to that, once it gets written. To fill you in for now, though: Much was basically starving and freezing to death on the Nottingham streets, and Robin's father found and took pity on him, which anybody in their right mind would. After all, Much is quite squeezable when he's angsty. grins

Also, side note: Much is twelve, and Robin nine, soon to be ten. And I apologize for any errors, such as names and dates and places. I'm very unfamiliar with such things, and way too lazy to look them up. Reviews, as always, are quite welcome.

Obligatory Disclaimer: I owns nothing. Not even squee!Much.

* * *

**Beginnings **

It was the first time he'd been allowed outside since coming to Loxley. He'd finally managed to convince Lord Huntington that he was, in fact, well enough to be up and about, and, more importantly, bored to tears with his room, lovely as it was. Personally, he found the terms and conditions under which the great lord had allowed for this most agreeable: in general, to sit and do nothing. And though he had been sitting and doing nothing for days, as any child of twelve will tell you, there is a difference between sitting in a window-less room and doing nothing, and sitting upon fresh grass with the breeze blowing through your hair and doing nothing. Besides: he was still too tired to really even think about doing anything _but_ nothing.

He gave a contented sigh, and lay back in the grass, his hands behind his head. Not far off, Elsie was tending to the morning wash, keeping a gentle eye on him. A part of him wished he could go and help her. She had been so kind, so loving during the weeks past – weeks that he had wept, to his shame, for the warmth of a woman's touch, a mother's touch, that he had not known in years. She had held him as the fever raged; as the nightmares lay bare his sins and miseries. But he knew that she should shoo him back inside the instant he picked himself up off the ground. He did not want to go in. It was bright, and quiet. Birds whistled, leaves fluttered. Spring had arrived. And with it, he felt a sense of renewal. This was the chance for a new beginning, here at Loxley, in this strange place, with it's kind people and fair plains. Perhaps things would not be so bad here.

Perhaps he would no longer have to be so alone.

xxxxxxxx

He supposed he fell asleep, for when he opened his eyes, the sun was not where it had been, but it could not have been for more than an hour. He sat up, scrubbing a dark eye with his palm. Yawned, ran a hand through sand-coloured hair, tinted with just hints of red. And then looked around, seeing where his cap had got to. Just off a little ways in the grass. He reached for it idly. He'd slept . . . and yet he still felt exhausted. He supposed he would feel this way for a little while. Weeks in bed had a way of doing that to a person. There was muscle to rebuild, strength to recover.

"Look out!"

Thwack!

Reflexes to regain.

He wasn't sure what had hit him, though he knew it was hard enough to create a pattern of obscurely saturated stars that seemed to drift amongst each other like the coloured glass in the long-sticks he'd seen the young Master Huntington use before when playing out in the sun. He was vaguely aware of someone grabbing his shoulders and hauling him into an upright position.

"I'm terribly sorry about that. Are you hurt bad?" the voice was childish, fearful, half from true regret and the other of a switching.

He opened his mouth. A few sounds came out.

"I should probably go get Elsie."

"No, that's all right. I think I'm fine."

"Really? Well, that's good then!" the face, which was becoming gradually clearer along with it's surroundings, looking noticeably relieved. He blinked. Speaking of the devil . . .

"Honestly, Father promised me a good tanning if one more person was knocked to the ground because of my ball . . . but it's doesn't really count with you now, does it? Seeing as you were already half-way there?"

He nodded, trying to reassure the young Master, who was now squatting eagerly next to him. He brought a hand to the spot on his head that the object – the ball, which was now a little ways off, having rolled to a stop on the hard ground – had designated it's new best friend. A bruise was forming, swelling a little. He didn't finger it too much, the very thought of it making him somewhat queasy.

"I don't suppose there's anything I can do to make it up to you?" the young Master asked. They sat for a moment in silence, until his stomach gave a spontaneous grumble, signaling the impending lunch hour. Then the young Master's eyes lit up and he grinned rather mischievously.

"You know what would make you feel lots better? Nothing makes a man happier than fresh picked apples, right off the orchard!"

He frowned. The good lord had insisted that he stay put, as per their agreement. And he knew that the big lord trumped the little one. But he took one look at the young Master's face and wondered how he was to deny this boy? It seemed an amiable jest of friendship – but not without the hint of trouble. From what he had heard, the young Master had quite the penchant for it. And he felt somewhat indebted – according to Elsie, the young Master had sat with him during those terrible hours, apparently the only one able to get him to take food, and drink, which he would not do for even Elsie. The Lord alone knew why, for he himself could not remember, not really. Flashes of heat, an uncomfortable haze in which figures of gray floated in a never-ending circle, motioning towards him, speaking in unclear voices that drifted into one ear and seeped carelessly through the other.

"Oh, don't look so glum. We shan't get caught – I know the shortcut." The young Master stood, still grinning, and offered him a hand. He hesitated. Sighed. Took the hand. And followed.

xxxxxxxx

"Now, it's very simple, really. The men my father has guarding the orchard are off a ways in that direction," the young Master indicated the Southeasterly bearing. He squinted, and could just barely make out two dark figures at the far end, the entrance to the orchard. The large wooden fence further on might would have deterred any grown man – but not two young children. For the young Master was small enough to fit beneath the lowest rung, and he was thin enough and tall enough to climb through the second. But before the orchard lay another fence, another field – and this one were not filled with fruit laden trees. Rather, with sheep.

"They shan't see us, or hear us, even if we _are_ only a mile and a half away. No one expects anybody but the village children by this way. And as they never take anymore than a little, and only ever sometimes, Father allows for it. And yes, it might not include me," his face became pale, but the young Master gave him a reassuring smile, "but he's a kind man. Very lenient."

He gulped. Nodded. The young Master was most certainly going to get him into trouble. But he was kind, and kindness, aside from the grand lord and Elsie, was something he had not known for a long time. He had never had a brother – he imagined this was the sort of thing brothers did. To be included . . . it was nice.

"All right then. Running through a herd of sheep is not as hard as it sounds. You don't even have to run, really, just walk quickly and dodge sheep. You can push them out of the way, gently, of course, sort of work your way around them. Be careful not to make any very loud noises that would frighten them, which would be very bad. Here –" he said, vaulting very smoothly over the low fence, "– watch me."

The young Master began to make his way pell-mell through the sea of white, nudging the offending wool out of his way, and they would scatter and bray in an annoyed fashion. Doubtless they were quite used to the young Master's antics, if his slight speed and careful maneuvering were any indication. The young Master paused briefly, and glanced back at him. "Well, come on!" he called quietly.

He climbed over the fence with ease, and set himself down in the midst of the she-beasts. He began to wade through the vastness, trying not to rush, but trying also to keep up with the young Master, who was a bit ahead. He had made it halfway to other side when there came a distinct sort of grunt that was most definitely _not_ sheep. He gulped, turned to his left. No, not a sheep. A ram. With horns. Very blunt, very pointy looking horns. Yes, both blunt and pointy. A hoof pawing the ground.

"Run!"

His head turned a half circle, and the look of fear on the young Master's face was numbing. His feet would not move. He could not make them. And then the ram charged, and he felt his will finally bending at the knees. Sprinting in the opposite direction, he saw the young Master heading for the other end of the fence, from whence they'd come. He turned sharply, hearing the ram skid a bit on the ground as it tried to correct its course. Frightened sheep were jumbling about him, out of the way, in the way. He slid beneath one that refused to budge. He was at the fence, the young Master having just scrambled beneath it, holding out his arms, beckoning.

"Jump! You've got to! It's the only way! Jump!!"

He took a deep breath, his legs burning, adrenalin pulsing through him. _Get your legs bent completely under you_, he remembered _her_ saying to him, _it's the only way you'll ever clear anything from a dead run_.

He flung himself into the air. Tried to bend his knees. Ended up flying headfirst into the dirt across the fence. Put out his arms to stop the descent, and crashed horribly, bruising his wrists, jolting his spine, rattling his brain. Nothing felt broken though. He looked up, the young Master grinning with relief, helping him to stand. They both shared a timid laugh. Then the young Master's face turned horribly pale, staring at something behind him, that he could not see.

"What? What's wrong?"

The young Master pointed, and he turned. Apparently, the ram had managed to clear the fence just as well as he had, along with several other sheep. More were still trying. A few had gotten stuck.

But the ram was still snorting its rage at the two of them, hoofing the dirt once again, and began its charge. He gulped and the young Master gasped audibly. They turned and ran in the only direction they knew how – to the hall.

xxxxxxxx

Had he not been so tired, in a state of almost listlessness, he was sure that he would be terrified by the imposing lord standing before him, that is to say, a lot more than he was at the moment. A hint of fear, more of exhaustion, was present on his face. The young Master, however, looked afraid for his life. They were standing in the kitchen, the sheep re-herded, the ram locked safely away, two chores with which their help had been adamantly required. Elsie had tried to see to him before the majestic lord had caught up with them, but she had only just managed to wash out a few cuts when his presence had been summoned to where he was standing now. He supposed he was shaking. He knew he was. The surge of energy spawned of fear from his earlier encounter with the ram had long since worn off, leaving in its place a drained, beaten feeling that made his limbs feel much too loose and entirely too vulnerable.

The fine lord was lecturing in a tone of barely repressed anger about how unintelligent there attempt had been and how dangerous a grown ram was when angered, as well as the fact that they had caused precious livestock to be put into such a precarious position. What if some had become lost? Had injured themselves, contracted a poison from an unseen cut? Did they have any idea, _any idea at all_ what sort of hardships could befall the people of Loxley under these circumstances? The young Master nodded mutely, and so did he, believing it best. The wondrous lord paced a minute, fuming, before finally turning on his son.

"Who's idea was this great adventure, any way?" he stared the boy down, who's head quickly bent in shame, unable to return his father's penetrating gaze. He felt an inexplicable amount of pity for the young Master. Alone in this house with only a rough but fair father, no mother, no siblings, if what Elsie said was to be believed. Ostracized from the village children, unnerving to his teachers and a handful to the proud man who ruled this land, he must have been the loneliest child in the world, even more so than himself.

"It was mine, my lord."

The young Master and the old Earl both looked up sharply, wearing similar looks of shock, one a fearful hope, the other a surprised indignity.

"You, young man?"

"Yes, my lord. I . . . I know what we agreed upon about my being outside, and I must admit that in a moment of excitement I . . . well, I forgot."

He turned to the young Master.

"Is this true?" he demanded.

The young Master said nothing, merely stared at him. He looked away, his cheeks colouring.

The marvelous lord paced a bit more, this time slower, his frown brought not by fury, but by deep thought. At last, he paused before him, looking down on him from a great height. His breath caught in his throat, he did not look away, determined to take his punishment, however harsh . . . however badly it might end.

"This is deeply troubling. I take you into my home, off of the cruel, cold streets of Nottingham, nurse you back to health, give you the opportunity to serve in my house, were I should have well cared for you . . . and you repay me by disobeying me, wrecking my livestock, and encouraging my son in his own rash behavior?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Father, wait!"

"Quiet, my son." The splendid lord held his gaze, until finally he just had to look away. The wound in the lord's great eyes . . . one, not of injured pride, but of betrayed trust, had just been too great to bear.

"I can only ask your forgiveness, my lord, and promise that I shall do better next time."

"Next time." The word was spoken blandly, neither with maliciousness nor forgiveness. He swallowed. He would not cry. He was too old for such things. Twelve years on the street, in all its harshness . . . he had not cried even for _her_, as he buried _her_; he would not cry for this most wonderful of lords, for he was wonderful. He could see that, at least.

"Father." A whisper.

Silence.

The blood pounding in his ears.

xxxxxxxx

The switching had been just that – a switching. It was not exceptionally fierce, but it certainly was not kind, and middle grounds are confusing. He had cried – not full blown sobs, not galling shrieks of pain. Silent tears. Tears of embarrassment, tears of shame. Tears of regret. Afterwards, he had just lain there, on the stone, cold and calming and soothing against his burning cheek. Perhaps he was once more with fever? Perhaps he was finally going to die, this time. Perhaps.

Elsie had knelt beside him, applying a balm from the kitchens on the cuts, the stings, and a balm for his heart just by her presence. Eyes half closed. Humming. Intricate details on the wall that he could not see clearly through the salty wetness. A dry tongue on drier lips. So tired.

He could hear the voice of the magnificent lord. It was quiet, sorrowful, and proud. Proud of him. Of what he had done.

"Must you have been so harsh, my lord?"

"He admitted to his guilt, whether it was real or not. He did a very brave thing. He took the punishment that should have been my sons."

"Then the young master is not to be similarly dealt with?"

"No. After this young man was taken to be whipped, he came to me and explained what had happened. He begged me to let the boy be, to punish him instead. I could not, however, go back on my word. I have sent him to his room, as he refused super, refused to dine with me. I believe that this has been a great lesson for him. I only regret that this lad had to bare the brunt of it."

Regret. He sighed. He might not be sent away after all. Eyes closed completely. Limbs aching. Head heavy, tears slowing. Drifting . . .

"For God's sake, Elsie, take him to his room. The boys liable to be even sicker than when we found him from lying on this floor.'

"Yes, my lord."

xxxxxxxx

When he woke, he was in his room. Still tired. No going outside today. He doubted he could gather the strength. Instead, he gazed at the roof with weary eyes. Elsie came and brought broth, which he ate, enough that she was satisfied he was not truly sick. Just sore. A bit of a fever. He would feel better tomorrow.

He lay quietly against the pillows, drifting. He seemed to be doing so much of that these days. Just lying there, drifting . . .

"No, you cannot see him. He's very tired, he needs rest, and I'll not have you stirring him up any more than you already have."

"Please, Elsie. I have to see him. If only for a moment . . . I owe him an apology!"

"Well, you're right about that at least."

A pause.

"Please?"

An exasperated sigh.

"All right, all right! But only for a moment, you understand?"

"Oh, God bless you, Elsie!"

A child's kiss, feverous and sticky.

"Oh, g'on, you little rascal!"

A knock. A creak. A face peering through the crack in the door. A very chastised, tear stained face, one to match his own.

"Um . . . hi. I . . . they said you weren't allowed out of bed today, so I thought – I thought I'd come to see you." It was a meek recitation, one filled with guilt and dread, the dread of having an unwelcome apology being cast aside.

"That's very nice of you," he said, gently. He had dealt with apologies of this kind before, the way a man deals with a startled fawn that did not know it was napping alone in the field. The young Master took a seat, looking a bit less nervous. He smiled at him warmly. It was nice to have company, company that he will remember, a conversation he can recall years in the future when he shall be alone. A warm spark on a cold winter night, enough to ignite a fire of happiness in even the most bitter of men.

"Well, yes, I – no. No, it isn't nice. It isn't nice at all. My reason for being here is selfish. More than you can know," said the young Master, gazing balefully at him, looking on the verge of new tears. He returned this with a confused look. What could be less selfish than a heartfelt apology, which the poor young Master was obviously trying to make?

"You see . . . it's clearly for my own conscious, my own peace of mind. I barely slept last night at all. I couldn't stop thinking about you, how you did that for me. No one has ever done something like that for me . . ." the young Master trailed off into silence.

"No one has ever been there to do such things for you," he added quietly. He knew. He had been that person. The young Master looked up at him, startled.

"Yes. Yes, that's it, exactly! How can . . .?"

"I know. Loneliness is hard."

Silence.

Before he could react, the young Master had crossed the room and flung his arms around him, sobbing into his neck. Startled, he sat frozen for a minute, before wrapping the boy in a tight hug and letting slip a few unchecked tears. He rubbed soothing circles in his back, muttered meaningless nothing into the air. Elsie's head appeared in the door, a bit alarmed by the sight of her future lord grasping at this young nothing, as though he were the last lifeline in the world. He mouthed something along the lines of _it's all right _to her, and she stood a minute, watching, before nodding and closing the door. He let the young Master cry himself into a petered out state of mild hiccupping. He found the young Master curled up on the bed, his head in his lap, arms over his legs and clutching the blankets. He absent-mindedly stroked the dark brown hair. It was soft . . . soft like _hers_ had been. Leaned against the pillows. Sighed. Felt . . . at peace, somehow. With this young boy, barely ten, drifting into sleep on his lap.

"Thank you so much," the young Master murmured.

"You're welcome, sir."

"Please, call me Robin. That is my name, you know."

Silence.

"What is your name?"

He stopped stroking, slowly. The young Master, Robin, looked up at him briefly.

"I haven't one." His mother had never given him one, he did not think. And _she_ had only ever called him 'darling boy.' He shuddered.

"I'm sorry."

"Please, don't be. It is not your fault.

More silence. A yawn. Another one behind it.

"Then I shall call you Much."

He blinked.

"Why?"

"Because you've given me so much to be glad for."

"Like what?"

"A friend."

He sighed. Another sigh behind it.

xxxxxxxx

When the Lord Huntington had come searching for his son, Elsie had lead him to the room, where the young lad was curled under a thin blanket with his head in the rescued boy's lap, clutching the blankets. Clutching him. The other had a hand tangled in Robin's dark hair; his arm lay over his son's protectively. Both were soundly sleeping. Robin looked more at peace than he had in years . . . since the passing of his mother. The older boy looked simply relaxed, no lines upon his young face, his eyes unmoving beneath their lids, so unlike what had been only just days ago. The lord began to form a plan in the back of his mind. This boy would have to be kept, and not merely as a house servant . . .

As for Elsie, she became privilege to a rare sight that she would only ever have the fortune to look upon four times in her life – the Lord Huntington smiled, a true smile, revealing no teeth and all the joy in the world. It made her want to smile herself.

She gazed upon the sleeping boys, one too young to be so old, the other innocent and yet scarred.

This could only be the beginning.

* * *

Questions? Comments? Leave a review!  



	2. Middles

**Note from teh G-girl:**

Hey, it's number 2! Only . . . 97 left to go . . . dang.

Anyway, this week's theme: Middles! Once again, Much POV, because poor Much is always gonna be caught in the **middle **of Robin and our favourite Lady! This takes place years later than the first one, but still during childhood. Much is 17, Robin 14, and Marian 10. More mention of the _she_ from last chapter . . . but we won't really get into that story until #11, so be patient! Also, by my standards, this chapter's realitivly short, but it's actually the length that most of these little stories will be. Sorry if that dissapoints.

And, just because I loves you all so much, here's a preview of next weeks, "Ends":

"The fire was dieing. The last bit of light that he was clinging to, before darkness fell and sleep beckoned. He didn't want to sleep. If he moved . . . if he so much as breathed the wrong way, everything would change. It would become real. He had not managed to stop the world turning, but if he refused to turn with it, perhaps time would stop, if only just for him . . . and that would be enough. He didn't want to go on. He couldn't. Even death would be more merciful than living with _this_ . . ."

Side note: Updates _should_ from now on take place on Saturdays, but you know how that goes . . . it's hit or miss, usually. But if nothing turns up on Sat., be sure to check back Sunday!

Obligatory Disclaimer: See "Beginnings"

* * *

2 Middles 

It was a bit depressing, really. Here he was, seventeen years of age, and unable to keep his own company. His happiness depended on a boy three years younger than he, who was, at the moment, being held indoors. Copying, "I shall not throw rotten eggs at the kitchen maids" a hundred times over. And forbidden company until such time as the great Lord Huntington saw fit. This, sadly, included his own. And it was not just Robin who suffered when he was absent – he suffered from it, too. Without the young Master, he was thoroughly at a loss as to what to do with himself. He had become so used to, so _dependent upon_ the young Master telling him where to go and what to do, that he had forgotten how it felt to be one's own person.

He didn't know whether to be unhappy or not. Mostly, he was just uncomfortable.

After several minutes were spent moping around the kitchen, Elsie had finally gotten fed up and thrown him out on the stoop with a loaf and an apple. That was where he was now, munching sullenly on the piece of fruit.

"If you're gonna sulk, you can go about it outside, 'cause I ain't having none of it in me kitchen!"

He snorted. That was Elsie for you.

xxxxxxxx

The bread had disappeared. So had most of the apple. The core was now being twirled between idle hands, waiting for instruction from either God or the devil, whoever managed to get there first. He pondered seeing how far he could chuck the blasted thing (which would have been _pretty_ far, knowing his arm strength), but decided against it, as there were several people out and around at this time of day, going about their chores in blissful ignorance of his problems. More than half of them would not have cared, if he'd told them, but that wasn't the important bit. The important bit was that he had the problems in the first place. He didn't handle boredom well. He wasn't good at it. Some people, like say, Elsie, could sit for hours just thinking and humming to themselves and be perfectly content to just stare out the window. Master Robin could do that. Watch clouds going by. He could not.

"Much! Oh, Much!"

His head jerked up from where it had been resting in his hands. He looked around for a moment, startled, before identifying the carrier.

"Good afternoon, Lady Marian."

"Oh, stop that! No one is about," she said, her dark red dress clashing vulgarly with the pale green of the grass. "Just Marian, please. Remember?" At ten years, she was short, tiny, compared to him. Her face was still filled with the joy of youthful exuberance, round and plump and smiling. Her eyes were still very blue. When he'd first met her – and she'd been _so little_ then, even tinier than she was now – he'd thought that perhaps they would change within a few years. They had not. Her hair had grown darker, however. It had once been the colour of honey, fresh from the hive. Now it was deep brown, soon to be black. He had overheard the grand Lord Huntington say that it was just like her mother's. Yellow at sunrise, brown by noon, black before dinner. He only partly understood it, but he figured that once it was black, it would stay that way for good. He imagined she would look very pretty, light eyed and dark haired; fair skinned, like a porcelain doll.

"But you are almost a lady, Marian. And I am definitely not a young child, as I used to be. It is only proper –"

"Oh, bother proper! Father is always saying that is what I should be, proper! 'Don't do this, Marian, make sure you remember, Marian, stop that, begin this, always properly!"

He giggled. He couldn't help it. Being a child, she was cute when irate. He imagined she would make some man (and he was sure he knew _which_ man) a very cow-towed husband one day.

"It's not funny, Much!" she said, trying not to laugh herself, and giving him a very hardy little girl shove. He only laughed the harder. Before he knew it, they were having a very unevenly matched tickle fight in the long grass, allowing her to get all his week spots before retaliating with a vengeance. Afterwards, they lay back in the field and he listened to her talk about how her embroidery was coming along, which nobles had visited Knighton Hall during the past week, all the new horse-riding skills she was learning, and on and on. He smiled. He imagined it would be boring, but sometimes, just sometimes, he wished that perhaps he could have been the soon-to-be-Lady Marian's manservant instead of Master Robin's. He knew he couldn't. He knew the day he left Master Robin's side was the day someone ran him through with something very, very sharp. But because he knew it would never happen, it was nice to wish.

xxxxxxxx

"What did Marian want?" Master Robin asked, looking fairly disgruntled. He supposed he would be too, if he'd just been made to write a hundred lines of the same sentence over and again.

"Her father had business to discuss with the good Lord Huntington, and she wanted to come see you. I think once it became apparent you weren't available . . ." he frowned at the look Master Robin shot him, one of pure annoyance mixed with something much more vague that he couldn't discern.

"What?"

"What yourself."

Eyes rolled.

"Oh, come now, Master, it wasn't _my_ fault you decided it would be a good idea to test the catapult –"

Master Robin sighed fiercely, slouching even further in his chair, arms crossed. He was staring resolutely out the window. He briefly wondered if _he'd_ been so moody at fourteen years. He didn't imagine so.

"No, that's not it, that had nothing to do with you."

Ah. It was to be one of these then. He repressed a sigh.

Over the course of five years, he had had plenty of opportunity to study the young Master, to get to know his habits, his weaknesses, his frames of mind and mood swings. His good side, his bad. His better points, his more infuriating ones. Master Robin was a complicated boy. At heart, he was sweet and gentle. But when he was angry, he sometimes said  
things . . . things that he _knew_ Robin didn't mean, that he said out of self-righteous anger, that should just bounce of him like water off a roof. That hurt. Deeply.

But that had only ever happened a few times. That was only if Master Robin was _very_ angry. Right now, he was merely annoyed. About what, he didn't know, but he knew it would come out eventually.

When Robin was annoyed, he usually did one of two things. He either came and told you outright, in a distinctly whiny and pitiful tone; or he bottled it up, would drop choice phrases to grab your attention, and then make you run circles around him trying to find the root of the problem. It drove the fine Lord Huntington mad. Elsie simply refused to be baited anymore. But he, _he_ always went about it patiently, slowly, and if he needled enough, avoided the hints and threw a few loops of his own, the young Master would eventually speak up, frustration boiling over, and he would count himself the victor. For that was all it was, really. A game. And one that he refused to loose, for his Master's sake. Too many people caved to Master Robin too easily, allowed him his faults because he was to be a future Earl. He had no such qualms. If he were to be dismissed, then he would be dismissed. But he would not see this boy, to whom he had devoted life and limb, suffer under his care. It was a job, keeping Master Robin in line. And he took it very seriously.

"That's good then. Want to go see if we can catch some fish before dinner?" he said, not looking up from where he sat weaving ribbons. The little Lady Marian had shown him a bracelet she had learned to make from one of the children in her village, and she'd been very keen to show him how, so that he might have one. They were "friend's bracelets" she'd said. They had gone to the seamstress, where she had selected matching colours from the discards basket. She'd said that they should have matching bracelets, to show that they were good friends. Having not finished before she left, she'd taken hers home and promised to work on it, if he would do the same. So here he was.

"No, the fish don't bite this time of year, and you know it."

A pause.

"What _are_ you doing, anyway?"

"Making a bracelet."

"_What_?"

"Ma-king-a-br-a-ce-let."

"I heard what you said!"

Silence.

"Anyways, it's stupid. Why would you do that? Weaving? That's woman's work."

"I find it to be very relaxing. And it is not just any bracelet – the little Lady Marian-"

"Oh, piss on Marian!" Robin shouted, standing, overturning the chair. He looked up, not startled, but ready to back out of the room if necessary. And then his brain registered what the young Master had just said. He could not stop the slightly over-cooked feeling his stomach was taking on.

"Piss on Marian? Piss on you."

The young Master looked well and thoroughly shocked. He merely returned to his bracelet weaving. What he had just said could very well cost him his life, if it were ever to leave this room – but someone had to set the lad straight. And it might as well be someone whose death would have very little impact upon the world.

"Wh . . . what did you just say?"

"You heard me."

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the young Master was now beginning to pace rather awkwardly, the look of a half-startled rabbit still lingering on his face. Robin would stop, and then continue, as if having some silent debate in his head. He would sit and wait it out. Lord knew he had nowhere else to be.

Eventually, the pacing stopped all together. When he finally resigned himself to look up, he noticed that the young Master had simply sat down in the middle of the floor (although slumped would have been a more accurate word), his head hanging. Robin looked the picture of a perfectly miserable boy, not for any reason in particular, just . . . miserable. He felt a pang of sympathy then. He turned to face him on his chair, leaning forward on his elbows. Master Robin would want to talk. It would be best if he also looked like he was listening.

"It's just . . . it's not fair," he muttered, "She's such an annoying little girl, always following me around, asking me what I'm doing, wanting to know what this does and why that goes there and how come this one works but that one doesn't, and – and it's so bloody _irritating_! And then, as soon as I've vanished, she runs off and, and – and sidles up to you! Asking you all the questions of the universe and having fun and doing things while I'm stuck in the house learning how to be a proper lord and all sorts of ridiculous stuff that I won't _really_ need to know anyhow, when _we_ should be out there, hunting or fishing or racing or having fun, _you_ and_ me_, not you and . . . and . . . and you're _my_ friend! Not _hers_!" Finished with his half-hearted rant, the young Master looked up pleadingly. Begging forgiveness, understanding . . . something!

He turned to the window. The light was streaming in. It illuminated the young Master's face and caressed his hair, touched his skin, made him look so unbareably _young_ . . .

After a minute of deep thought, he turned to Robin and said as simply as he could, "I am sorry. I didn't know you felt so strongly about such things. If you ask it of me, I shall tell the little Lady Marian that I am no longer able to play with her."

Robin looked relieved. Robin looked pained. He looked frightened and unhappy and joyous and pensive. Robin knew that whatever he was made to do, he would do it. He wondered if the young Master _really_ understood what that meant. To hold a man's life in your hands is a heavy burden.

"No. No, that isn't what I meant. Of course you can still see Marian – it was . . . well, selfish of me to suggest otherwise. I didn't – I just didn't want you to forget. You know, about me," Robin said, looking at him meekly. He nodded, coming forward to sit on the ground opposite the boy.

"Believe me when I say this now – I would never, upon pain of death nor promise of torture, nor unbearable sorrow nor unending happiness, _ever_ forget about you. You are my Master. Where ever you go, I shall follow. Whatever you command, I shall fullfill. Whenever you ask. I shall stay by your side 'til the bitter end."

It was a powerful oath. Robin's face frowned, for it was never just his mouth. He knew some part of him had touched the young Master. He hoped he had given the impression he meant to convey.

"Thank you, Much. That . . . means a lot."

"I know."

The young Master leaned over and gave him a very short, very fierce hug, which he returned in kind. A silent pact declared, a silent aggreament to seel it with some bread and cheese and a choice wine. As they tread the stairs, he decided to speak up.

"You really musn't say such things about the little Lady Marian, you know."

"I know. And I didn't really mean it! You won't tell her I said that, will you? Much? Why are you grinning? What? Oh come on, you wouldn't actually . . . you wouldn't dare . . . Much? Much!"

Perhaps there would come a day when Robin would realize that Marian was not so bad. Perhaps the little Lady would worm her way into the heart of the young Master, to whom she was betrothed. Perhaps they would learn to love each other. Perhaps . . . what he knew was that he would always stand beside Master Robin, and he would always do his best to look after the little Lady Marian, as she would always be tied to Robin somehow. For now, being caught in the middle did not seem like such a bad thing. Maybe that would change. But maybe not.

* * *

Questions? Comments? Leave a review! 


	3. Ends

**Note from teh G-girl:**

So, apparently, I can't count: _now_ it's only 97 left go. Still dang. Very much dang.

On to this week's theme: Ends. Much angst (no, not the character) for poor Will Scarlette, whom I fell in love with the moment I laid eyes on him, didn't even know who the heck he was, what character, nadda. Just that he was cute. And love! Anyway, the background on this - and this is mostly just an assumption on my part, seeing as I've read some fics where they state that Luke is dead, whether by the noose or something else, so I took that and ran with it - is that Luke has died, Will is shell-shocked (and very likely OOC, please let me know), and Allan's feeling for him. Takes place sometime after "Brothers in Arms", obviously, sorry for any spoilers! Again, unbearably short, but the next one will be a semi-two, semi-four parter, so here's hoping that appeases you blood-thirsty hooligans!

Thanx to all reviewers, by the way, ya'll roxxorz my boxxorz! Much loves you all!

Anyway, teensy-weensy preview for next week, "Insides":

"Tears. Anguish. Bitterness. You're cleaving at the bark, swinging with all your energy, which by now is very little. You're dying, you know it. Slowly . . . oh so slowly . . . your hand releases the sword. You drop to your knees, your forehead in the dirt. Where it belongs. Where you belong."

Obligatory Disclaimer: See "Middles"

* * *

3 Ends 

He had not move in hours. Not a muscle, not a twitch. He had sat, knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around them tightly, clenched fists, fingernails digging into his calves. Chin attached firmly to the knees. Jaw aching from gritted teeth. His muscles had started to shake within the last few minutes, from gripping so hard for so long. And yet he could not move to save his soul – the paralyzing numbness that seemed to have settled upon him would keep him there until something, somebody, _anybody_, _**please**_, snapped him out of it. It was all he could do to breath. Just keep breathing . . .

The others had left him to this strange state, not a trance, not sleep, but a sort of shock, the kind that invades a man's mind after years of bloodshed and too much violence have worked their way into his brain and turned it sour, spoiled it. Fortunately, he supposed, he had not been exposed to such horrors. But it was the same feeling, non-the less. Much had recognized it when he'd brought him his dinner. Taken one look at him, and he'd watched the manservant's face melt into a look that was so uniquely Much, an expression that conveyed sorrow and concern and regret so well, so intimately. It was a look he had only ever seen bestowed upon Robin when waking from a nightmare. He had left the food a hand's reach away. Had said nothing. Not about eating, which he would normally have done, complained loudly about how he had slaved away over a hot fire all afternoon only to have his fellow outlaws turn their noses up at his masterpiece. Much had placed a hand on his shoulder, given it a gentle squeeze, looked him straight in the eye, and offered a small nod. It was ok. Life would go on. The sooner this was accepted, the better things would get. And then walked away. He'd watched him until the man escaped his line of vision, staring straight ahead, never moving, never dwindling, barely blinking at all . . .

Robin's words had been few. Too few, perhaps, or too many. And not very choice either. Or, he supposed, just the right ones, because really, what more could a man say? "I'm sorry."

It only meant one thing, and was in such common usage it seemed to have lost its touch. It was what one said to communicate heartfelt dignities – he himself had used it one hundred times over – but it seemed cold now, made of stone, unfeeling and without meaning. That sentence alone held every thing and nothing at all. Richer than wine, emptier than the flask. Since then, their fearless leader had not so much as looked in his direction, though his face continued to frown, and would, he supposed, well on into the night.

Little John stood a little ways off, sanding down his staff. Just after he had received the news, the big man had given him a look of pure sorrow, lines wrinkled on his old forehead, face twisted in confusion, consternation, understanding . . .

"If he were anything like you, him, I would have liked."

It meant a lot. A lot more than Robin's, "I'm sorry." It was, at least, original. It came from Little John, not a long line of pre-used and repackaged sayings that would just cycle on through again and again and again. It was the sort of thing that was said only once, because once said you could never use it again. It could not be sold, could not be bought. It was a language all it's own. He supposed once the lack of sensation wore off, and he could feel again, the words would ring true in his heart and lighten the knot that had settled there.

Djaq . . . Djaq. She had shed a few tears, for his sake, because he could not shed any of his own. Will was done shedding tears. He had not been able to in a long, long time. Not for Uncle William, his namesake, when he was laid to rest two winters before their mother. Not for her, whom he had loved more than life itself, and yet from whom he had taken, stolen that very most precious of things. So Djaq cried, he supposed because she was a woman, and they were allowed to cry. It came . . . easier for them. They were better at such things. Crying and being able to cry. It was like a gift from God, one that every man on Earth wished he could possess, but never would. Women . . . they were much luckier.

"If you need to talk, I am here."

She would be there. She would listen. But more importantly, she would do for him what he could not do for himself.

And then there was Allan. Allan had said nothing. Done nothing. Hadn't so much as glanced at him. Hadn't offered any sorrow, any remorse, the tiniest bit of his presence to confide in . . .

Come to think of it, Allan hadn't said anything to anyone, at all. Not since they'd gotten back. No jokes, no laughter, no attempts to ease the tension boiling over with a lighthearted remark or two. No anything. Allan had just sat himself down, barely visible to him, across and off to the right, staring into the fire. Yes, he wasn't exactly immovable, unshakable, so immersed in a stupor . . . but the crease in his brow that suggested pensiveness hadn't eased. It was stuck there, and had been, ever since they'd returned to the campsite. And suddenly, he was filled with an overwhelming desire to know what those thoughts were, to seek them out and claim them for his own, to bind them to him and immerse himself in them and be comforted with the fact that he no longer had to worry about his own thoughts, his own demons . . .

Another man's nightmares are always so much easier to deal with than your own.

xxxxxxxx

The fire was dying. The last bit of light that he was clinging to, before darkness fell and sleep beckoned. He didn't want to sleep. If he moved . . . if he so much as breathed the wrong way, everything would change. It would become real. He had not managed to stop the world turning, but if he refused to turn with it, perhaps time would stop, if only just for him . . . and that would be enough. He didn't want to go on. He couldn't. Even death would be more merciful than living with _this_ . . .

"Yeah, I know. Seems like, 'If I do nothing, it'll all go away.' You know it won', though."

Allan's voice floated through the air like water through a river. Gently, slowly . . . beautifully simple. Unlooked for, but not unrecognized. He would have thought the man asleep. He usually managed to nod off pretty quickly, upright somewhere against a tree, a man-made roof of cloth and stick hovering above him.

He said nothing. Swallowed. Dryly.

"And then, when y' do move, you're gonna think, 'Well. If I just don' think about it, it's not like it ever even 'appened!' I mean, c'mon. People talk about their tragedies, and you feel for 'em, 'cause they wouldn't be talkin' about it if it weren't the real thing."

More dry swallowing. The shaking – which had died earlier, and taken his grip along with it – was returning, slowly at first, gaining strength with the other man's speech.

"But you know it can' ever _really_ be like that. As soon as you figure you've got it all sorted out, everythin' in it's proper place, all tucked away somewhere's no one can ever find it, buried with 'im, boom! It all comes crashin' down, pourin' out, flood gate's open an' you can' stop it."

Something pricked the back of his eyes. It burned his throat, turned his stomach. Made it clench in fear, in desperation; he _had_ to remain unmoved, couldn't, just _couldn't_ let anything escape-

"Best to let it out now. Get it over with. Recognize that 'e's not comin' back, and there's nothin' you can do, or coulda done, to stop it."

One tear. One single, solitary tear, leaving a trail that stung and burned and screamed in pain, trickling down his cheeking, etching it's way slowly, devastatingly, bright red and licked by the flame. It would leave a scar, he knew it would. It had to. Nothing so glaringly destructive could ever just be whiped away without leaving any trace that it _had_ been, that it _was_ there, and that some small part of it would remain forever . . .

"I know, mate. I know."

His head was buried in Allan's shoulder. A soothing hand rubbing soothing circles on his back. Another one clutching tightly at his shoulder. Sobs. His sobs. Echoing throught the forest, cries of anguish, cries of despair . . . grief, overwhelming, clogging every sense, pouring from his body, filling the air and poisoning it. A gentle voice, whispering uselessness into the air, making it all just that much worse and so much better.

Soon, there was nothing left. Nothing left to cry, nothing left to give. Nothing left to feel. Staring up at a dark canopy that blocked the sky and covered the stars. Even the moon was invisible. He rolled over onto his side, staring into the fire. Renewed, he noticed. Allan was throwing on a last log, poking it with a stick, settling the last of the embers. Threw a blanket over him, came and laid down beside him, back to back, shoulder to shoulder. The shaking had dulled to a quiver. He felt . . . calmer. Quieter. He could sleep now, perhaps. Sleep, and prepare to face the day ahead. There were truths to be recognized. Fears to face. Misery to suffer, hurt, grief, pain. All to be experienced. All to be felt, with agonizing clarity. But they did not seem so daunting now. He began to feel for the first time that maybe these things could be conquered. Maybe he would not be swallowed whole by the black pit of despair. Maybe there was hope, salvation waiting at the end. And the night seemed brighter for it.

Comforted, reassured, he felt himself drifting, giving in to that which he had deprived himself of for the past eight hours. The exhaustion became overwhelming. He sighed. Allowed himself to melt into Allan's already snoring form. To mold with the ground, like the liquid fire that was poured by the blacksmith into the metal. Relaxed. Breath . . .

xxxxxxxx

Allan smiled to himself. Will was asleep. He could feel him through the blankets, turned almost entirely on his stomach, one arm pillowing his head, the other shot straight out into the leaves. Fingering Luke's dog-tag. He sighed at that. The news had come early in the day. The youngest Scarlette boy had been killed in a skirmish with some guards. Neck snapped. Will had taken it . . . hard. Very hard. Too hard, maybe. But could he blame the man? His brother, dead. The others . . . they had treated it as they would any other casualty that had taken place outside the inner circle. There was sadness, yes. An air of desolution about the camp. But Allan . . . he could understand. He'd watched his swing. It was no small thing, loosing a brother. A part of your soul, gone. A part of your life, dead. A part of the world ended forever.

He had waited until the others were all asleep, before approaching Will. Because what had been said had _needed_ to be said. And not in front of anyone, either. He'd expected the reaction he'd gotten. He'd done what he could. And if Will was comforted by it, then it was good thing. If he'd shown the younger man that this was not the end, that everything would continue, and he could go on living, turning, with the world . . .

Well. At the end of the day, that was all that really mattered. Really.

* * *

Questions? Comments? Leave a review! 


	4. Insides

**Note from teh G-girl:**

So, here we go! Numero four-o "Insides". More Much angst. Lota Much angst. I'm so mean to the poor guy . . .

Anyway, this is kinda sorta part of a four-parter, this being part one (and the reason it's so short). Part two is number 71, part three number 5, and part four number 72. So, there will be a huge gap between parts, but don't worry, it all plays out. In the meantime, be patient!

So, without further ado, enjoy! Oh, wait - preview:

"Marian was right about that, in any case. You think. But you never manage to think enough. Not about everything. Because it's just too much for any one man to think about. Unless, of course, you simplify.

Like him. He simplifies _everything_. It's so funny, so ironic, in a way. He has done what you could not – discovered the secret to happiness. To have and _be happy_ with the little that you have.

No wonder he is so _miserable_ all the time. Because you are a complicated man. And subsequently, you complicate everything around you. In direct contradiction to who and what he is. And yet he follows you, blindly. Into what he knows is certain death, certain destruction, certain misery."

Obligatory Disclaimer: See "Ends"

* * *

4 Insides 

_Whack._

_Thwack._

_Thump._

_Thud._

Panting . . . gasping, coughing . . . bent double. Your hands gripping your knees. Your eyes squeezed shut. Your blood pounding in your brain, rushing through your ears, everywhere except your unsteady arms, your numb hands, your shaking legs . . .

_"You are like a pox on my skin_._"_

A strangled yell. Your sword in your hand, knuckles white from their grip, the only thing that manages to hold firm, steady, unwavering. You swing, not even stopping to wonder what the tree ever did to you.

_"You see, there is no smaller man. You_ are _the smaller man_._"_

Your teeth are clenched. You shake your head desperately. _No, no that isn't true_._ It _can't_ be true_. Please . . .

_"I keep scratching_ . . . _but you never go away_."

Tears. Anguish. Bitterness. You're cleaving at the bark, swinging with all your energy, which by now is very little. You're dying, you know it. Slowly . . . oh so slowly . . . your hand releases the sword. You drop to your knees, your forehead in the dirt. Where it belongs. Where you belong.

Why does he do it? Say such things? He's done it all his life, ever since you met him, beaten you into the ground with the malicious joy you fear so much. Not because it hurts, which it does – like hell. You remember a time when you lay almost dead on the battlefield, blood dripping so slowly, oh so slowly, from your side, everything but the pain a distant, long forgotten emotion. This . . . this is worse. Not because it comes from the one man you love more than life itself, more than _your_ life – because you would follow him into death, into hell. You would walk on water if he asked you to. You would kill for him . . . and you have. And you will continue to, until the end of time itself, perhaps. But because it is the truth. Coming from the only man you know will ever speak the truth to you. It is the reality that you try so desperately to hide from, so determinedly dodge, so often ignore and bury deep down inside, where it can only hurt and remain invisible to the rest of the world.

It is the truth. You fear it. You hate it. Because you hate yourself. Because _he_ hates _you_, for the truth. And that is the greatest pain. There is only one thing more awful, more unbearable, so excruciating and unendurable you've only ever dared to think about it once, twice, and no more – and that would be life without him. But after that . . . after that this is the next worse feeling, the one that you must live with. That you are hated by the one person whom you live for. The reason you live . . . is the reason you are slowly dying. Piece by piece. Moment by moment. Breath by breath.

xxxxxxxx

It is hours before he finds you. Before he even thinks to come looking for you. It was growing dark when you left the campsite, and it must now be the early hours of the morning. Your eyes are closed, for it makes no difference – either way, the darkness is consuming, unrelenting, inescapable. You cannot run from it. There is nowhere to run _to_.

When he stumbles across your fallen body, everything aching from this kneeling position, one reserved for prayer or solitude, an appearance of slave-like devotion . . . You cannot find the energy to stand. You let him scramble on the ground, trying to collect himself. Tomorrow, if it comes, will see your muscles kinked and sore, terribly stiff.

He recovers himself enough to utter your name. A question. Another utterance, this one annoyed.

A third one. Pleading. Frightened. Of what, you do not know, but it is there.

Gentle hands, lifting you up, leaning you against the same tree you so brutaly marked. Throwing a cloak about your shoulders. Sitting down heavily next to you, throwing an arm around your shoulder, and giving it a good rub. You must look colder than you feel.

Your eyes open of their own accord, and you sigh. Head leaning back, exposing your neck. Your adam's apple bobs as you swallow.

He sighs, too. But his head falls on your shoulder. So your cheek rests on his head.

He's sorry, he says. You fight the urge to suddenly burst into a fit of hysterical giggles. He's sorry – he's said it so often before. More than all the other people in the world combined seven times over.

I know you're sorry.

But you don't believe me. This hangs unspoken in the air. It is a half truth, really. Some part of you, the greater part, knows that it is all he _can_ do, say he is sorry, because he knows no other way. Always, all his life, all of your life, he has been sorry. For lesser things. And that has always been enough. You both wish that this time was no different. But you know it isn't. A simple 'I'm sorry' will do nothing but scatter salt on an open wound.

You always know, he says. But this time, he says, I mean it.

You say nothing. There is nothing to say.

Much, he says. I know that it sounds . . .

What? Breakable? Indifferent?

Empty?

Yes, he says. All those things, he says. But . . . I also know that you _know_-

That I know what? That you cannot help being what you are?

No. He says. That you will never leave. He says. That I can say these things because you'll never go away.

You feel your insides burning. Your head aches. And your eyes . . . your eyes feel like they are going to crawl out of your skull and pop.

I say these things, Much, he says, and you can hear the hitch in his breath, because there is no one else to say them to. You are the rock in the ocean, the rain on the desert, the sun in the dullness that is English weather, he says. And you are the one thing in this world that I can count on, unconditionally, he says.

Close your eyes, trying, failing, to hold back this sudden flood of misery you feel building, gaining momentum and preparing to crash down on you from the recesses of your mind.

I say these things because I trust you. He says. Because I need you. He says.

Because I love you.

_Continued in 71 Broken_

* * *

Questions? Comments? Leave a review! 


	5. Outsides

**Note from teh G-girl:**

Sorry this is a day late, I was busy doing stuffs last night and unable to get near a computer! So here's for all the guys, and here's for all the dolls!

This is a companion (or Part 3) to the previous week's fic, called "Outsides". This would be Robin's POV. His thoughts, versus Much's thoughts. Note the subtle differences, and similarities. And yes, I think Robin means well. But he's still an inconsiderate twit.

And now, for the preview, from "Hours":

"He felt like he could be sick a thousand times over and still vomit up the world. Damn his master, damn Robin, for doing this! The man was insane! Thoughtless! He swears, before God and the devil, that if he stood before the man right now, this instant, that he would _wring his little neck_ from now until judgment day. In perfect contentment, too. His mind allows a little thought to surface, for the briefest of seconds: he's never known contentment. Ever. And Master – no, Robin now, _just_ Robin – will likely keep it that way, he is sure. Never a dull moment around that man. He attracts trouble like honey does flies. And quicker."

Obligatory Disclaimer: See "Insides"

* * *

5 Outsides 

You wish you could understand. You wish you could be a better person, a better friend. Because that's what he really needs. A friend. It is the one thing you would demand from him, unconditionally, the one thing you wish with all your heart you could reciprocate, absorb and sink into and be lost in forever, drag him with you and let him crawl into your skin and know that he _is_ loved, that you _do_ care, that you _are_ his friend . . .

That without him you will surely die, just as inevitably as he would.

He's asleep, now. Curled in a ball near the fire, under your cloak, knees to his forehead. You've always thought it must be the most painful position, especially for sleeping, but he's always slept that way. In a ball. Ever since you first met him, by the campfire, in the barn, at the foot of your bed, without fail – in a ball. He's quiet tonight.

Sometimes, more often than not, he talks in his sleep. Muttering, really, ceaseless murmuring that hums in rhythm with his breathing and calms, soothes, relaxes. It is the sound you have fallen asleep to for more than half your life. The few times you have been separated, for an evening, in the dark – you twitched all night. You could not sleep. You dragged the next day, practically falling where you stood. And then, when he would return, you would sleep the sleep of the dead. He would have to shout at you the next morning to make sure you woke to great the day.

Sometimes, he nightmares. You should know – you do the same. But somehow, his nightmares are always . . . louder. Clearer. So much more vivid than your own. When you wake, they slowly drift away, leaving half-imagined horrors that scare you and make you feel weak, sick with fear, mostly because the simple state of _fear_ is all that's there. His . . . you're pretty sure they _stay_ with him, after he wakes, throughout the day and well into the night, not just the fear they leave behind, but the dreams themselves. You can see the shadows that will suddenly cross his happy face, turning it blacker than winter. The way his glee-filled expression will suddenly sort of crumble in the middle of a conversation, causing him to slowly edge away to sit on his own, eyes fixated on something that isn't there. And sometimes – just sometimes . . . when he's lost in that own little world that hovers at the edges of his wits, you can see his hands, moving of their own accord, mimicking such simple actions that you know so well, that are completely unrecognizable to those who live here, in England . . . but not to those who fought – and died – in the Holy Land . . .

When you first met him – ages ago, it seems – he was very . . . ill. He cried in his sleep, cried out into the night, meaningless words that hinted so vaguely at death and loss and despair. Even after he was better, moved into your room, you would wake in the middle of the night to mindless, desperate screaming. You would lie in your bed, quivering, pretending to sleep, as it abruptly came to an end, followed by an impossible amount of pacing that seemed to last for ages. Eventually, it would settle, and so would he, re-lighting the fire, stoking it carefully, tenderly . . . and then he would sit at the edge of the bed, as close to your face as he could get, so that your breath would flutter in his hair. He would not sleep, though eventually you would. And when you awoke, he would be lying across the floor, slumped, half-curled, and strangely _peaceful_ looking.

And then there are the other times. When he is quiet. Says nothing it all, doesn't even twitch. Not a whimper, not a sigh. Absolutely nothing. And those times are worse than the nightmares, so much worse. Because it isn't really sleep. It is unconscious exhaustion, the overwhelming desire just to simply vanish, if only for a little while, a subconscious begging of the mind for release. It is the body's capitulation to the feeling of emptiness, of deadness . . . A feeling you have caused. That you have engendered, a seed you planted and nurtured carefully, feeding it and sunning it and talking to it, encouraging it to grow, egging it on and watching with pride as it blossomed into a full blown, thorny flower, mutated by greed and selfishness, the stench of loathing and fear heavy in the air from it's powerful perfume. It grins at you maliciously.

_You say you didn't mean for me to turn so sour _. . . _you say I was supposed to be the seed of friendship, of good faith_ . . . _you say_. _What am I now, I ask you? A weed_. _A weed of deception, of cruelty_ . . . _your own selfish desire to own every piece of him, to take and leave nothing for himself, making my roots grow strong and run deep, choking what life he might have had, strangling his spirit, _killing_  
him _. . . _slowly, oh so slowly_ . . .

He would die for you. And you know it. Because that is what he's doing, even now, in the dead of night, when all is quiet and peaceful and seemingly all right. Even now, he is dying. For you.

xxxxxxxxx

You're sitting next to him now, because with your cloak gone, the fire provides the warmth you're lacking. Your conscience is groaning from the weight you've been piling on it all evening. Marian, when she was just a young thing, would always say after an argument with him that you never think. That you always say those things and you _never think_ about what it is you're saying. The truth is you think quite a lot. You think enough for ten people. Sometimes, rather, you think too much. You over complicate things. You've dwelt so often on the subject, you've thought it through so thoroughly . . .

You know that when he dies, you shall die. You know that when he hurts, you hurt. You know that when he bleeds, a little part of your soul collapses. Unless it is _you_ who hurts him. Who exposes him, who makes him bleed. Who is slowly killing him. If _you_ are doing the hurting, you cannot get hurt yourself.

At least, that is the way it _used_ to be. Because such things were so little. So simple. So _small_. They could not . . . the wouldn't have . . . you mean, _how_ can such a little bit of terror, such a small amount of cruelty, really hurt him? _Really_ hurt him?

You never took into account that such things . . . they sort of, _accumulate_, after a little while. They build up. You never thought to remember. Remember that it all adds up, after a bit. It grows. From a seed to a flower. Or a weed.

Marian was right about that, in any case. You think. But you never manage to think enough. Not about everything. Because it's just too much for any one man to think about. Unless, of course, you simplify.

Like him. He simplifies _everything_. It's so funny, so ironic, in a way. He has done what you could not – discovered the secret to happiness. To have and _be happy_ with the little that you have.

No wonder he is so _miserable_ all the time. Because you are a complicated man. And subsequently, you complicate everything around you. In direct contradiction to who and what he is. And yet he follows you, blindly. Into what he knows is certain death, certain destruction, certain misery.

Because he loves you.

xxxxxxxxx

You wonder when it began to show. On the outside. He was so careful, so good at hiding it, for so long. He never let on that anything was any different, that anything had changed. That you were still you, and he was still he, and that all the stupid things you did continued to just . . . fall away, in a forgotten ditch somewhere, undefinable and long buried. To you, anyway. To him . . . they were mearly scattered beneath the surface, waiting for the skin to be pealed away so that you could watch them squirm and try to run and hide, from your gaze, the gaze that follows him everywhere.

That begs him to do something when you say there is nothing more as can be done.

That pleads for him to try when you have given up.

That implores he do what you cannot.

That wishes, so desperatly, more than anything, more than the lungs for air, that he would say 'no' when you ask him to say 'yes'.

But you know he never will. The 'no' is always hidden, wrapped up in the shell of the 'yes', it's protective covering, it's armor, the one thing standing between it and the hatred that is this world, the world you have given him.

Because he will _always_ do what you both desire he would and could not do, simultaniously. He will always say yes, even when every other part of him means no, because that is all he has to give. The only thing standing between him and you. You put that barrier there. You gave him cause to need it. You practically placed the brick into his hands and said, _Around this, you shall build a wall_. _Make it strong and steadfast, for their will come a day when you will need it like the flower needs the sun_.

And now, some small part of you finally begins to understand.

You have dishonored your purpose. You have been replaced, by the need for cold protection. And this time . . . this time you cannot blame him.

For you have done it to yourself.

_Continued in 72 Fixed  
_

* * *

Questions? Comments? Leave a review! 


	6. Hours

**Note from teh G-girl:**

Ok, so here's #6 on our countdown: "Hours"! I'm particularly excited about this one because it's got _everybody_ minus Robin, who is being held captive in the dungeons of Nottingham Castle at the moment. Btw, this shouldn't be confused with Sheriff Got Your Tongue - this takes place at some random time when Robin screws up and gets left behind. So no spoilers, unless you count the previous sentence. Anyways, unless you couldn't guess, it starts of with Allan POV, then Will, Djaq, Little John, and Much rounding things out. Supposedly an hour passes for each silent vigil. I suspect Allan's a bit OOC, which I'm terribly terribible about.

Anway, preview of "Days", which will be an Allan story:

"That day had been a Sunday. Which meant no work. He'd planned to sleep, the entire time, God willing. But the ruckus caused by the other villagers in the early hours of the morning made such desires impossible. He'd gotten up, dragged on a very dirty shirt, washed his face, and gone to see just what the hell it was all about. It was still dark out, for Chris' sakes."

Obligatory Disclaimer: See "Outsides"

* * *

**6 Hours**

It's his fault, really. His fault, and he knows it. The rest, they all suspect as much – but they don't say it, don't say anything. Probably haven't even thought it through proper, not yet. No time for that now, no time to point fingers. No time to name the culprit and hang him out to dry –

He closes his eyes harshly, jiggles his head a little. He's not gonna think about that right now. Still, he can't suppress the shudder that climbs rather lazily and aggravatingly intense all along his backbone. He always suspected he'd end up like that, with a rope around his neck. Told it to himself a hundred times ore, drilled it into his brain with every lie and every cheat and every penny he ever stole.

_They're gonna string you up like a fresh caught fish, and then the bugger down bellow's gonna pop you in the oven and watch you roast for an eternity_.

Still. It's one thing to think about it night and day, and in those little hours where the night seems that much darker and his mind sort of . . . looses control, for a little bit. When everything he ever hated and ever dreaded and ever made him cry comes out of the woodwork and speaks in soft voices at the back of his head. He gets like that sometimes. Doesn't happen often. But it does happen. All the fear, all the despair, all the faces and the names that haunt him when he sleeps and whisper at him when he's awake come to life and are given body and meaning in the shadows and the mist. He keeps a tight lid on them, most of the time. Squares 'em away somewhere were he can't feel the hurt, the bitterness . . . the guilt. Living with what you done. That's got to be the hardest sin of all.

And it's a completely different thing to be there, standing on the stool, your last look at the free world and the sun and the sky before that scary git throws that bag over your head, smelling like the last breath of some poor snot you never even knew his name, and suddenly, without even the noose, you can't breathe and you can't see anything, and _oh God_ but you didn't want to die like this, you wanted to see green grass and clear skies and feel the sun on your neck and taste the air in all it's beauty, the touch of another human's skin against your own, something to hold on to, to just hold and be held, and not like this, _not like this_ –

He blinks, feeling pale. He doesn't like to think about it – for what mind likes to dwell on the fact that he _nearly_, not just nearly, but _nearly_ died? – but sometimes, when he's had a bad day and gone to bed so late after the sun's gone down, he dreams. Dreams that turn dark real fast and are filled with the memory of dangling by your own throat and kicking madly for the ground, ground that isn't there, that you'll never find, choking, thinking _how_ could you _ever_ have taken something so precious like air for granted in your life, and suddenly wishing so badly that you would live, please God, _let me live_ –

And he did. He got lucky. But only because Robin was there. Sure, luck's always been something that came easy to him. Fortune favors the fool, or some stupid thing like that. Will would know. But the way he figures it, luck likes Robin a whole hell of a lot better. So it's best to stick with the crusader for now, while he can, and the going is good.

Robin saved his life. He saves Robin's. They become square, at least until the next battle. He's got to be careful, though, make sure Robin saves him first, so that he can only just return the favor. No heroic grand stands, jumping on the leader's sword for him. No, he'll leave that to Much. Because he knows how that sort of thing works. Karma can be pretty damned finicky. And the instant he rescues Robin, without the other man having rescued him first, luck's gonna run out. And then he'll be a dead man anyway, with or without the Sheriff's help. So for right now, he'll go to Nottingham Castle and break the man out of prison. He owes him that much. He needs to keep it that way.

xxxxxxxx

He was being stupid. It's been known to happen. And when it does, it's devastating. Life's that way. When a fool is stupid, it happens so often no one suffers the worse for it. They expect it, even. He is a different sort of fool. One of the worst kind. The one that thinks it out so carefully, so thoroughly, so logically . . . and then forgets that seemingly insignificant, minor detail that just really has no bearing on any of it at all, until this insignificant, minor detail becomes _the cause_ (and not just one cause, but _the cause_) of failure. Sometimes, it's a small thing. Like when he was seven, and accidentally got Luke's ball taken away, for good. Other times, not so. His father's hand. That was his fault, too. That stupid nail that just wouldn't release from the plywood –

And like now. If he'd only _remembered_ that block. It led to a dead end, instead of a the main hall. And if it weren't for that, they wouldn't be in this mess now, you stupid, stupid–

His jaw clenches. The one thing, the _only_ thing he ever does, physically, that gives himself away. He can keep his face straight, straighter than one of Robin's arrows. Never move, never flinch, an even tone of voice, a steady hand, a solid back. Like a piece of wood. Firm, resolute, unchangeable. Well, not in the right hands. Then it can be shaped, carved, formed into something great and beautiful and meaningful, to some. But he hasn't met that someone yet, so for now he is still strong. Emotions . . . he feels them, sharply, just as any man does. But he never lets on. It's just not in his nature. So he clenches his teeth.

It makes his jaw hurt, ache really. Because half the time it is an unconscious action, brought on by stress and fatigue that has no other way to release itself. He can set his mouth for hours, only noticing that it has grown hard and stiff at the end of the day, and then he'll have to massage it gently to get it to unhinge. It's a relief when it does. But a painful one.

He lets his mind flitter briefly past the fact that his jaw mimics his feelings. He keeps it screwed tight, a lid upon everything, so that all may be in its proper place and the world never has to view his shortcomings. His uselessness. His failures. Securely bottled, away from prying eyes and the world where he would be naked and exposed and brought to trial by those who would then judge and find him lacking. For all men form a basis of opinion about every man they know. And if they knew about him, the real him, they should surely abandon him as the inadequate boy that he is.

But these feelings, of self-loathing and disappointment, of worthlessness and fear, silent, dreaded fear, they build in pressure, crushing down on his shoulders and his mind and his heart. He feels them walk among him in his waking presence, lay down beside him as he sleeps in the night, following relentlessly and dogging every step. They grow, they flourish, they thrive hot and unpredictable beneath the surface. The tension mounts, they gain strength in numbers until finally he cannot hold them back and he is forced to free this climactic swell that collapses down upon him and breaks him, every ounce, because a little bit of his pride dies, each time, a little bit of his dignity diminishes. It is sweet release – it is lingering shame. For a while, then, he feels happy, he feels open, and it is such a wondrous feeling, the sensation of being alive and knowing that you are living for yourself.

Robin gave him that. Unbound him. When he requested, without asking, that he ride with him, follow him into Sherwood Forest. He had returned meaning to life, shown him that there was so much to live for, that there was goodness in this world still, to be found beyond the whip and the chain and the iron fist that was Nottingham's Sheriff, Loxley's Sir Guy of Gisbourne. That air could be tasted and savored as purely as anything, light on the tip of your tongue and dizzyingly intoxicating, offering you the world to take and do with it what you pleased.

It was something that he cherished, that he lived for. That he would die for. And so he would go, and rescue Robin, die if necessary. Because no man should die imprisoned.

xxxxxxxx

She is fidgeting. Nervous, slightly. Anxious, more like, ready for something, _anything_ to happen. Sundown cannot come soon enough. It is all she can do to maintain her post, resisting the urge to pace and move. She could not stand this, sitting still, waiting . . . although it was not paining her as obviously as it was Much. The man's face is visibly strained, his teeth grinding, his hands wringing themselves excruciatingly. She looks from his distressed face across the way to Will and Allan's. The later is quite pale, grimacing, a small shudder passing down his backbone. He corrects himself pretty immediately, looking around to see if anyone noticed. She focuses her attention on Will. The man is stiller than death, glaring straight ahead, lost in thought. His jaw is clenched. She almost smiled, just a little. How predictable Will could be. He never changed.

Little John is standing next to her, looming over her shoulder, keeping a lookout where her blind spot stands. The big man seemed so calm, so relaxed, and yet ready to leap into action the minute action was required. He is fingering his staff, rough fingers gliding over smooth wood. He glances down at her, smiles gently, reassuring her that yes, they _would_ rescue Robin. Yes, it _was_ possible. Yes, it _would_ be ok.

Deep down, inside of her, though, she was not so sure. Something always went wrong; something always killed some small part of the plan, and something, whether it was an important factor or a loose end, always unraveled.

And more often than not, she was left to gather the remains.

This thought disturbs her, frightens her. Capable, steady Djaq, who always was so sure and sound in everything she did, made sure that Robin had a back up plan, that nobody got hurt, and if they did that they were taken care of. Because these stupid men, who rushed headlong and with careless abandon into everything they did, made half-hazard plans that were so rarely thought completely through, counted battle scars and dueled recklessly when there was nothing else to do, where just that – _stupid men_. And perhaps they didn't realize it, but they had come to depend on her, and her feminine tendencies. For she might have been "one of the lads," but she could never change her sex, or the instincts she was born with. She would take care of them, all of them, in a way that Robin and Little John could not. Gradually, slowly, she had taken it upon herself, deemed it her duty to make sure that these silly little boys with their horses and their sticks did nothing to themselves that was irreparable, damage that could not be undone. She patched them up when they came to her with cuts and bruises, placed a bandage on the wound and kissed it and made it better. The older sister, who chastised and admonished and grinned like a fool at every ridiculous happiness they brought before her, laid at her feet in such obviously simple delight, with such admiration, such pride in every little pleasure that she could not help but join them, and be glad that it was she, and not some other, who was loved and venerated by these compelling young gentlemen who sought her approval and threw themselves in front of swords, all for her sake. They were all so funny, so outrageous, that they needed someone who would undertake these responsibilities, keep them all in line, make sure that nothing too serious, nothing too terrible, could grace their nightmares in the dark. She supposed that was why Robin's capture made her so unbearably nervous.

He had been stolen from her, right under her very nose, a sibling lost to darkness that needed to be rescued, as soon as possible. Why did they _do_ this? Torment her so? Get themselves into trouble and offer her apologetic looks for the worry and the fear she felt race throughout her blood and swallow reason, eptitude. They would be the death of her, these silly little boys. But until then, she would do her best to make sure that at the end of the day, all was well, all were accounted for, and all were tucked away safely in the glow of the fire light, well taken care of, well looked after, and knowing that they were well loved. With that, she could be satisfied.

xxxxxxxx

He should have known better. Trust Robin, that impatient young imp, to go and get himself captured. But then, he had given the go-ahead. The all clear. The "ok" signal. He'd been the one on scouting duty, who had surveyed and watched and observed every nook, every cranny, every changing of the guard and bribable officer, every trustworthy contact and every escape route. Young William . . . he believed it to be his own fault, he could tell, from just one look at the boy's face. Will'd been the one to draw the map. Of course, he should have double-checked. Should have followed up behind the lad. Made sure it was accurate.

Good lord, he was getting old. Not that old, but definitely old enough. Old enough that keeping up with these young guns was getting to be a challenge. It was job enough making sure nobody got himself knocked silly in the heat of battle, in the midst of an operation. Making sure no one, especially that A' Dale, got too close to the young Saracen lady. Catching up on every little tiff, every small grievance. Making sure that peace was kept, that order was maintained. That priorities were set straight.

Robin, that goofy lad, mixed his priorities. And the toll it took upon the group was telling.

It annoyed him, really, more than anything. They were like mindless children at play. Not a thought to tomorrow, not a care in the world. Heedlessly prancing into battle, taking it only as seriously as their untrained minds permitted.

One thing he could admit and be proud of though. This might have been their initial _attitude_ towards battle, but once caught up in its terrifying midst's, they all become different people. Gone were childish notions of priceless glory. Replaced with attitudes of battle hardened troops, fighting with strategy and skill, knowing that their very lives were on the line, that this was not a matter to be taken lightly. They do him proud, every time they pick up a sword, a bow, an axe. He knows that Robin, and Much, have spent several years off fighting in their King's war, that they are battle-hardened soldiers . . . but it only shows on the manservant. Robin is still as idealistic as ever. He suspects the older boy shielded Robin from the many horrors of the war, as best he could. That he has taken on enough mental burden for two men. It has left him raw, damaged, somehow. His fighting stance shows hardened determination, blunt and devoid of feeling. The manservant is a bit like himself, he imagines, in this respect. The Saracen lady, young Djaq, is keen for battle. She fights hard, but would rather preserve the peace. She is a healer, more so, than a warrior. She is skilled, strong. And frightened of that strength. Frightened of what she can do, of the ability to kill. But he knows that she shall make her peace with it, _because_ she is strong. Allan A' Dale, that cheeky little rogue – he dances around very prettily, cleaving men left and right with fancy turns and complicated swings. He pretends it's all just a game, one great big game that you come to at the end of the road, where there are evil men to be dealt with and so you do. But he can remember, once, seeing the lad run a man straight through, looking him in the eye as he did it, no skipping about, no last minute feints – just slaughter, direct and bloody, black and white tainted with red. He can remember the look in the boy's eyes. One of fear, one of desperation. One of guilt, the kind that can kill a man, hanging over his head and gnawing at him, eating him up inside until there's nothing left. That boy's going to crack, someday soon, and he prays to God Almighty he ain't there to see it. And then there is young William. A baby, really, no more. The lad can't be more than twenty years, but he is the kind who was born old. He fights with his axe, a strange weapon, he thinks, wields it with a sort of grace that you wouldn't think to find in a the son of a carpenter. He's got more natural skill than any of the rest of them, including Robin and his bow, that he wields very carefully, holding back every time he slices into a man's throat, because he knows that this thing can kill . . . but more than that, he knows Will understands that ultimately, _he_ is the one brandishing the axe. _He _is the one who controls the weapon. And he does so, very timidly, in his own way. The power to take a man's life – he thinks this alarms young Scarlette. And it should.

And then, there's bloody Robin. A real fighting man. A real fighting boy. To him, it's not a game – but it's not entirely real, either. He's watched the boy fight. He's one of those rare ones. The kind that can kill a man, and know that it is wrong, and be filled to the brim with regret. But he'll do it anyway. It's in his blood. A sort of, madness, almost, that cannot be escaped, that is released upon the battlefield and quickly disappears when not needed. An invisible armor that the man was born with, doesn't even realize adorns him. It is a mark that few are trained to recognize, but because he has seen and known so many men, he spotted it almost instantly. Robin is a born killer. Not an evil one, the kind that does so just simply . . . because. He is a fighter, too, one for justice and equality. But a killer, non-the-less. And he has never met a killer of this kind that he did not like.

xxxxxxxx

He felt like he could be sick a thousand times over and still vomit up the world. Damn his master, damn Robin, for doing this! The man was insane! Thoughtless! He swears, before God and the devil, that if he stood before the man right now, this instant, that he would _wring his little neck_ from now until judgment day. In perfect contentment, too. His mind allows a little thought to surface, for the briefest of seconds: he's never known contentment. Ever. And Master – no, Robin now, _just_ Robin – will likely keep it that way, he is sure. Never a dull moment around that man. He attracts trouble like honey does flies. And quicker.

He knew something was wrong the instant Will entered the camp, catching sight of A' Dale and exchanging mutual nods, before looking around briefly. Those two words, that shock him to his very core every time he hears them, that ignite an insatiable fire of fear and agony, drive him mad with loose thoughts that pick up and run around and around and around inside his head, become invented nightmares he imagines that are blown continuously out of proportion with each passing hour, are uttered – "Where's Robin?"

And it's always, "Where's Robin?"

Because stupid, inconsistent, unappreciative _Robin_ is always the one getting caught! Never the one you think it will be, never Will in a moment of confusion, Allan in a moment of recklessness, Djaq in a moment of weakness . . . always Robin, doing what Robin does best. Getting into trouble.

Why does Robin _do_ this to him? He must enjoy it, somehow, in a deep, construed, perverted sort of fashion. Enjoy tormenting him. Enjoy watching his hair turn prematurely gray and the black beneath his eyes settle into a permanent state of being. Enjoy the hole the man is burning in his stomach, the worries he creates that keep him awake in the quiet hours of the morning, the insanity he is slowly but surely driving him towards –

Damn him. Because Robin knows that he cares, more than anyone, more than any other person in this world. That he'll always come to the rescue, always be there to save him. That he'll do whatever is in his power to do, go above and beyond the call of duty, because he will not even stop to comprehend the fact that perhaps there is something he _cannot_ do to save him. That there is no way of saving Robin. That it cannot be done. No. Such thoughts are treasonous, blasphemous. He knows that it is sacrilegious to place Robin on the same altar as God, to put this man on equal footing with the eternally divine. But he can't help it, can't stop himself. Surely he will be damned to hell –

But there can be no worse a hell than the day he cannot save him, the day cannot rescue him, the day he fails.

So here he is now, biting his fingernails into nibs and chewing his bottom lip to shreds, paying almost no attention to the concerned looks Djaq shoots him every few seconds, the mild curiosity on Little John's face, the looks of incredulity from Will and Allan. They do not understand, they can never understand, that which drives him. Complete and utter loyalty to _one man_. Continuous adoration for _one man_. Undying devotion to _one man_.

Eternal love for one man. And his name is Robin Hood.

* * *

Questions? Comments? Leave a review! 


	7. Days

**Note from teh G-girl:**

Sorry this is late in posting, but the computers were acting finicky and I couldn't get it up over the weekend - not to mention I was busy as nobody's business. Anyway, here is the next Chappy fresh off the menu, "Days". This is an Allan fic, I'm fascinated by the guy! Speculation on his childhood, mostly. Will probably wind up being as non-cannon as it gets, but what the hay. I can dream, can't I? Btw, the accents are probably horribly off - but I like having a more tangible way of differentiating Allan from the group. Oh, them Rossdales!

In the meantime, preview! The next one, "Weeks", will be more Much!angst, plus a little bit of insight on who the _she_ from "Beginnings" is:

"He'd then proceeded to scream until his voice was hoarse, kicking, stabbing, punching everything he could get his hands on, ripping up boxes and slinging them against the walls of the ale house, tearing up everything and anything in sight, smashed a few kegs of old ale that had been left in the alley to rot, finally collapsed in the snow, sobbing, hiccuping, curled in on himself and just prayed that God would let him die so that he wouldn't have to watch her leave him all alone . . ."

Obligatory Disclaimer: See "Hours".

* * *

7 Days 

He'd said three days. Promised, in fact. Just three days.

"Look after yer sisters, lad. An' make sure yer bother keeps 'is nose clean."

"Bu' what about you, Da?"

"I've got fings to do, boy. Don' you worry though – I'll bring us back some good eats, I will."

He'd picked him up, swung him about in the air, laughter – brought him down to land on his shoulder. He could always see the world from up there.

"An' we'll 'ave ourselves a feast, I can swear to tha'! While I'm gone, you an' yer sisters, you plan what we're to do wiff it all, why don' choo? I wan' a full course meal prepared to be cooked, when I ge' back, you hear me, lad?"

"I hear ya, Da! An' I promise, it'll be the best meal in all of mother Englan'!"

A hand ruffling through his hair, a big strong hand, so large when placed behind his own.

"Thas' me boy."

A grin. A wave from the doorway.

And just like that, the man was gone.

xxxxxxxx

Mum had been sick, that last winter. It had near killed her. Even now, in the midst of spring, flowers popping up by the road side, little fish springing up in the stream, the sun shining down in beautiful splendor, she was holed up inside, under blankets, looking small and weak and inconceivably tired.

"Tha' woman's gonna drive him to the grave, she is. And all those little 'uns! Just look at her, lazin' about. I don' doubt that she were dreadful ill, but then, she always is, always was, tha' selfish lass. An' now she's got the perfect excuse! You ask me, the bes' cure fer her is good sunshine an' some wash in 'er hands, you ask me."

It stung, when the other ladies of the village talked about Mum like that. He never said a word though, and often had to hold Tom back, stop him from rushing to her defense. He didn't know why he did it – though he would, in later days. Even at the tender age of ten years, he knew they spoke the truth. Knew it wasn't right. But she was his mother! What else could he do?

He took care of them, all of them, while Da was away. He did that sometimes, went off on trips he never spoke about, that he was never allowed to question, only told that "someday, I migh' just take you wiff me."

Two sisters, one brother. The little girls were just lasses, really, babies. Five and three. And they were so easy, too, so easy to take care of, to love and look after. They smiled at him affectionately when he set them their dinner, they laughed when he brought them down to the stream for a quick scrub. They delighted in the simplest of things, always so happy – and then there was Tom. Tom, who was headstrong and impatient and a smart-ass. Nine years old, and already lying without remorse, thieving without regret. He got into trouble all the time, fighting and whatnot, giving him all sorts of grief. He did a fair bit of lying himself – and he was good at it, in a way, better than Tom could ever be. But it always smarted, just a bit, every time. He, at least, had a conscience. Tom did not.

xxxxxxxx

On the third day, he had spent the evening watching the horizon line, the dirt road that led to and from the village. As he went about the washing, as he cooked the meals, as he tilled the ground where the small garden beside the house was planted. He looked up so often his neck was cricking, starting to ache from the spasmodic snaps every time he heard a footstep. Da always returned by sundown on the third day.

"I bet you a ha' penny he don' come back, this time."

"Shut up, Tom."

"Wha'? You scared he ain' comin' back to you, back to 'is favourite, back to sissy-boy Allan?"

"I sai' shut up."

"Oh yeah? Wha' you gonna do? Huh? You gonna tell ol' Da, run to him, like you always – hoi!"

"Allan, no!"

He looked up to see his older younger sister's face in the doorway. He was straddling his brother, fist in the air, one hand clamped about his scrawny neck. She looked frightened, she truly did. Tom saw an opportunity, head-butting him fiercely. Gasping for breath, it didn't take long for him to wind up pinned, face into the dirt floor, one arm twisted at a painful angle behind his back.

"I al'ays knew I were better than you, big brother. Al'ays knew it – an' now you know it too, don' choo?"

Couldn't say anything, gritting his teeth and trying damned hard not to cry out as his arm began to bend into an unnatural position.

"Tom, stop i', stop i', please!"

Tom's breathe hot in his ear.

"Well? Aren't you gonna say anythin'? Huh, sissy-boy?"

"Leggo, yer scarin' her – ah!"

"Tommy, please!"

"Shut up, you _stupid girl_! He's on'y gettin' what he deserves!"

xxxxxxxx

He'd managed to throw Tom off, eventually. The boy got like that sometimes – just wanted a fight. Somebody, anybody, would do. But he'd be damned if he decided that somebody was gonna be one of their sisters. He'd knocked Tom about a bit – and gotten knocked in return. He always held back, when Tom wanted a go at it. He was bigger, stronger – it was only fair. So he took a few scrapes, took a few hits. No one came out the worse for it. His pride could take a fair beating, which he knew. Tom's couldn't. So he let him off.

The little ones had been put to bed, after he'd calmed the older one down a bit. He knew it frightened her, when her brothers fought. He tried to make sure she never saw, but when she did, he always came to her afterwards, comforting her, holding her gently. She would finger his eye, blackened, and run her hand across the scraps, the cuts, sometimes still bleeding.

"Po' Allan. Its al'ays the good 'uns get hurt most, ain't it?"

She was much too smart, for a little girl of five. Because she knew it hurt him, too, when Tom got like that. Brothers were supposed to be close, supposed to be friends. He and Tom would never be friends.

xxxxxxxx

Tom had stomped off to bed, and once he was asleep, he'd found an extra blanket and thrown it over the snoring form. Made sure he was comfortable enough. Warm enough. Then went to check on Mum. Gave her the medicine, made sure she took it all, washed it down with a nice cool glass of water. Made sure she had enough pillows, enough blankets. She was cold, tonight. He gave her his, said they were spare ones. He wouldn't be sleeping anyway. Da wasn't returned yet.

From the window in the room he shared with Tom, he could see the road. It was getting darker every minute. He crossed his arms, leaned against the sill. Tucked his chin down, and prepared to wait.

When the sun dawned the next morning, he was awake to great it. That marked the end of three days.

Da had not returned.

xxxxxxxx

A week had passed, and still Da didn't come home. On the fifth day, neighbors started showing up, bearing gifts of good food and warm clothes, and unsmiling faces. They all asked to speak to Mum, but he always told them she were sleeping. She'd been ill, and needed rest.

"Mayhaps we could call again some time or other?"

"Yeah, that woul' be nice, thanky very much."

They left the food, the blankets, the clothes. On the eighth day, they stopped bringing such nice things. He managed to make them last until the tenth day. After that, the only things he got were sad, pitying looks from the men and the women and offers from the other lads round the village to help him with the garden. Or work in their own fields.

"No thanks, mates. Me da says he's big enough to work fer us, an' I ain't allowed until I'm grown an' a man."

They'd give him funny looks then, like he'd lost his mind. He ignored them.

xxxxxxxx

"He's dead, you know."

"No, he ain't."

"I'm tellin' you, he's dead! The Sheriff's men got him, took 'im to hang, he's been dead fer a' least a week or so now!"

"He ain't dead, Tom, now shut up!"

"Oh righ', I ferget – sissy-boy Allan ain't gonna take the truth, ain't gonna take i' like a man –"

There was no sister to stop them this time. The barn was free of such restraints. The pail he chucked at Tom's head struck, and the boy was howling in rage and the next thing he knew, he'd been charged, thrown back into the hay, fists pummeling every side of him, as he kicked and bucked and tried to get the little bugger off of him, get his hands around his neck, _because he was gonna bloody kill him till he died_ -!

"Boys! Tha's enough of tha'!"

The blacksmith, Angus Crowley, a giant of a man, tore him away from his brother and dangled them one from each fist. Tom was looking smug, arms crossed. He was still trying to get at him, like a dog on a cat.

"Tom, you get on 'ome now, before yer ma star's to worry."

"Now you'll ge' it, you stupid –"

"I sai' get!"

Tom scrambled for the door. He watched him go, breathing heavily through his nose. Angus Crowley set him down, fixed him with a hard look, and he stared determinately at the ground.

"You shouln' be fightin' wit yer brother like tha', Allan."

"I know, sih. An' I'm sorry. I'll try tha' it doesn' happen again, sih."

Angus Crowley's face softened, the lines uncreasing. His look turned thoughtful. After a moment of unbearable silence, he spoke.

"You know, I coul' use a good strong lad like yerself in me forge. Pumpin' bellows, an' whatnot. 'Ow'd you like to give tha' a try?"

He looked at him, misery in his eyes. Because he'd heard the rumors, watched the women whisper as he walked past, pause and point, as he steadfastly ignored them.

"Tha's young A' Dale, the one 'is dad got 'ung by the Sheriff."

He knew that they needed the money. He knew that as the eldest boy, it was his job to provide for that.

So with a nod and a dry swallow, he went to work for Angus Crowley.

xxxxxxxx

On the seventeenth day, they brought the body home.

He'd been working hard in Angus Crowley's shop for almost a week now. He was constantly sore; everything ached, from working the bellows day in and day out. He would rise every day before the sun, and when he got home right before sundown he was a dead thing. He made dinner for the family, saw to mother, put the girls to bed, the hell with Tom, and then threw himself on his matt and let sweet unconsciousness embrace him.

That day had been a Sunday. Which meant no work. He'd planned to sleep, the entire time, God willing. But the ruckus caused by the other villagers in the early hours of the morning made such desires impossible. He'd gotten up, dragged on a very dirty shirt, washed his face, and gone to see just what the hell it was all about. It was still dark out, for Chris' sakes.

The crowd that gathered in the twilight of the village square was alive with the collective buzz of muttered whispers, faces glum, fingers pointing, watching closely the entrance to their little shire. It was frigid, unusually so, and his breath came out in steamy little puffs.

When the cart appeared, it was drawn by a somber looking gentleman all in black. The cart had no sides, just a little rail, and three six foot long body bags, all a dirty, disgusting white, burlap sack and rough to the touch. He could feel his eyes widening, his breathing growing shallow. Of it's own accord, the crowd seemed to part, and he found himself standing at the front, the circle closed, all hovering over him, much too tall. The man in the cart had stood, was talking, saying something. But he couldn't hear. Everything had suddenly gone numb; he couldn't even feel the cold anymore –

"… accused of thievery, illegal gambling, rabble-rousing, and other high crimes against the Sheriff of Rossdale, these men were found guilty of their crimes and sentenced to hang on the 11 day of February, in this the year of our lord 1181. The names given for them read as follows . . ."

It had started raining. Little drips.

". . . Erwin Gomry of Rossdale . . ."

They were sliding down the back of his neck, giving him goosebumps, making his hair rise.

". . . Anthony Prichitte of Rossdale . . ."

His hair was starting to slack against his forehead, as the rain thickened, just that much.

". . . and Gregory A' Dale, of Rossdale . . ."

Someone, many someones, were crying, somewhere. He could barely hear them, from the corner of his mind. The bodies were being carted away to a small pit dug only yesterday, to be buried in the mud and the slime and the filth that was Rossdale . . .

And it was raining. Tears poured forth from the heavens, skidding down his cheeks, salty to the taste. The angels were weeping for those dead. He was weeping for himself.

xxxxxxxx

He had run, to where, he knew not, but he remembered being holed up in the foliage, an impenetrably thick bush where the water crept in slowly and was held there, clinging to his skin, repulsively sticky, accumulating in a little puddle where he sat. He was curled into a ball, fallen over on his side, his arms folded between his legs, his hands grasping at his face and burning it. It was the longest time before Angus Crowley found him, dragged him out of there, as he kicked and screamed and bit, beating every inch of the blacksmith he could get to, for _how dare_ he take him away from this place where misery hung in the air like a sopping wet towel, that he could wrap around himself and just stay there forever, waiting to die? The man had let him flail away until he couldn't even raise his hand, then took hold of him, lifted him up, carrying him close to his chest, and he could hear the man's heartbeat, strong and firm beneath the fabric of his shirt. He'd carried him all the way back to that accursed Rossdale, his head pounding, eyes only just open, barely proccessing anything he heard.

"Good Lord above, Angus! Where'd you fine' the lad, in a river?"

"Hidin' in a bush, collectin' rain water, 'e was. See if you can get 'im cleaned up, Beatrice."

"Chris', he hasn' been eatin' much lately, 'as he? Feels like a feather weight, he do!"

He was transferred to a woman who smelled of lavender, warm arms that were strong and soft and he felt himself crying again, silent little tears that smoldered against his skin. She placed him on a bed somewhere, a real bed, with soft fabric and a mattress and everything. Removed his shirt, scrubbed him down.

"You're burnin' up, you are. Foolish boy, you've pro'lly gone an' given yerself p-neumonia, you 'ave."

The water scalded and itched everywhere except his face, where it was cool and refreshing and lovely. She got him in a nightshirt, much too large and lighter than air, before lying him back against the bed, his head on a real feather pillow, the blanket drawn up over him. Too hot, much too hot . . . but he didn't have the strength to move it. A cool cloth on his forehead, in his hair, dripping down his face.

"You get some res' now, you 'ear?"

His eyelids fluttered, turned on his side, one hand near the pillow. He listened to his breathing, sounding harsh and fast to his ears. Everything was dark now, and cold, so dreadfully cold, and he couldn't think how many days it had been since that terrible morning that seemed years ago . . .

He didn't want to ever think again.

xxxxxxxx

On the twenty-second day, he was lucid. He was able to sit up in the bed and eat, by his own hand, what Beatrice Crowley placed before him. He was able to listen and talk when Angus Crowley came in after work and sat in the little chair beside the bed. He looked at the man apologeticly.

"I'm sorry fer puttin' you through all this trouble, sih. I didn' mean to be a bother – "

Angus Crowley waved his hand at him.

"Nonsense, boy, nonsense. T'wouldn' 'ave done me much good to watch me apprentice ge' 'imself killed wiff the fever, now woul' it?"

He nodded, staring at his lap.

"I'm the one as shoul' be askin' fer fergivness, lad. I shoulda le' you know abou' yer dad, the minute I 'eard the news. Don' know why I though' yer mum'd bother tellin' you," he muttered the last bit, to himself. He ignored it. There was an uncomfortable pause, so he asked a question that had been bothering him for much of the day.

"Wha's gonna 'appen to me now, sih?"

The blacksmith looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Well, yer mum's sister is down at yer place now, an' I reckon she'll be stayin' fer a while. She's been taken' good care o' the girls, while you were away," he said, eyeing him carefully. He relaxed a little. That had bothered him the most. It was comforting to know his sisters had not suffered from his moment of selfishness.

"An' Tom?"

Angus Crowley sighed heavily, suddenly looking quite old.

"He done run off too, lad. 'M sorry, bu' we looked everywhere – simply couldn' fin' him."

He sighed too, at that. Tom had always been very good at running. And even better at not getting found. He'd have to check the usual places once Beatrice Crowley allowed him out of bed.

More uncomfortable silence followed.

"I was wonderin', lad. If you wouldn' mind keepin' bored 'ere wiff me an' the missus. I could train you proper-like, as an apprentice, you payin' your fer yer room an' yer meals wiff all tha' fresh young strength you got there." Angus Crowely was grinning at him. He considered.

The girls would be taken care of. He remembered Aunt Sally – she was a kindly woman, very hard working. She'd make sure they were raised proper and got all the care and love they needed. And it wasn't like he wouldn't see them ever again – just wouldn't be living with them, under the same roof. Mum would be well looked after. Aunt Sally would dote on her just enough to keep the woman happy. And Tom . . . his chest constricted a little at the thought of his little brother out running wild. But there were hardly anything he could do about that, especially now. He'd just have to hope and pray that it turned out for the best. Of course, he knew it wouldn't. But there were nothing he could do about that either. Or the fact that before the year was out, he would find himself in a similar situation.

"I fink I'd like tha' very much, sih."

xxxxxxxx

On the thirtieth day, he visited Da's grave. Left a small peice of a flower petal from one that grew in Beatrice Crowley's garden. Left a tiny bit of metal that Angus Crowley had let him forge the other day. The burn on his hand from where he'd accidently handled the anvil was bandaged, but nothing had ever felt so good in his life. Told him how things were going now, with Mum and the girls. He left out the bit about Tom. Told him that soon Angus Crowley was going to teach him to read, and write, and he'd get the 'higher eddication' that he'd always wished for his boy. That he'd come and see him again, as soon as he could. He didn't know that this would be the first real promise he'd never keep.

On the thirtieth day, he stopped counting.

* * *

Questions? Comments? Leave a review! 


	8. Weeks

**Note from teh G-girl:**

So, here we go with numero eighto! I'm just moving right along, now, aren't I?

This chapter goes a bit more into the background of the _she_ mentioned in Chapter 1 - sorta. More like, Much's background in which she becomes an important character. I'm very proud of her, and I don't wanna hear any war cries consisting of , "Mary Sue!", ya hear?! (And yes, this was partially inspired by Moulin Rouge!, all you fellow funfactstrivia nerds!)

Anyways . . . no preview for next week, because darn those plot bunnies! Inspiration just isn't my best friend this week. I might end up skipping chapter 9 and go straight to ten, which is flowing pretty nicely from the pen every time I sit down and drum out a few thoughts. Review with your opinions, if you'd be so kind. I promise I would come back around to it, eventually, maybe sooner. But right now it's just not happening.

Obligatory Disclaimer: See "Days"

* * *

8 Weeks 

The first week, it rained. Constantly. The sky turned gray one morning, tinting everything the most bizarre shade of blue, and having started it simply refused to stop. Somewhere in the middle of it all, it became a barrage of slushy water that melted upon impact with the ground, before it become so much that it started to pile on top of itself, until it came in contact with his skin – and then it disappeared in steaming gasps that stung his flesh and adhered to it, revoltingly sticky. It came to a point where he was constantly dripping. Everywhere he went, and everything he did. Counting flowers for Lady Elsberry, running meat for Mister Rochester – all done whilst in a state of utterly depressing wet.

It wasn't a good thing, either. Someplace along the line he'd developed this ache in his chest, a weight that seemed to settle there and grow heavier with each step, interfering with his breathing and causing this sort of wet cough that he couldn't quite seem to shake. His head was constantly tight, stopped up with that green gook that dripped from the end of his nose. His throat was dry, and it hurt when he swallowed. Everything became heavy, and he'd find himself falling asleep on his feet without even realizing it.

But it was nothing compared to hers. Nothing at all.

xxxxxxxx

The first week, she had started coming home early. And she wouldn't go back out. He knew that what she did was primarily an . . . _evening_ practice. "Costumers" came in the daytime, too, though. She would be up and have left long before he did, but she would always come back for dinner. She'd be out again before eight o'clock, and wouldn't come home until late in the night. The first week, though, she was home when he got there. That last day, it had scared him, so badly. He'd walked into the little room, a tiny one at the back of an alehouse that was too small, even for storage. The owner's never questioned their use of it, and the two parties rarely interacted. The only things in the room where the pile of sheets were she'd made for him a bed, the rug upon which she slept, and the chest in which she kept her . . . _things_. That last day, she hadn't even bothered to undress herself, to change and wash her face, to untangle her hair, which she usually was so careful about. She was a beautiful girl, he knew that. He'd only rarely seen her when she was "prettied up" as she called it. He saw her now, the charcoal beneath her eyelids, smeared from crying, her hair a rat's nest with bits of coloured ribbon woven into what he assumed where meant to be braids; her dress front, the peasant's blouse, was very low – he could see the lines where she began to curve, began to swell, the tops of her breasts; her dress was short, riding up from where she'd taken in the hem, and it was torn down one side to reveal a calf; her shirt was ripped, at the sleeves. He hated it, seeing her like this. Her blood-red lips, the bruises on her face, around her neck, all over her. She became so ugly, so disgusting, when she looked like this. Only her eyes, the strangest shade of blue he'd ever seen, remained beautiful. They were closed, now. She was asleep. And she was breathing very awkwardly.

He kneeled behind her, cut the blouse loose with his pocket's knife, and felt her gasp, sighing. He brought the basin from the chest, filled with water, and with it a rag, and he began to wipe the charcoal, the tears, the berry-juice away. He removed her boots, and combed the tangles from her hair. It took an hour, maybe more – she did not stir.

At the end, he placed a gentle kiss upon her forehead. Then licked his lips, and placed another one, clumsily, upon her own. He knew that she had known better, for he was inexperienced in such arts. Her mouth did not respond to his, but her eyes opened, and he hastily withdrew, his face colouring. She smiled at him sadly.

"Oh, darling boy. You are so kind to me. So kind." And then she'd started coughing, innocent enough at first, but it wouldn't stop, and soon she was bent double, her arms gripping her sides, a hoarse choke emitting from her throat and gasping for breathe. He simply watched, tears in his eyes, frozen in fear, observed as she finally collapsed back onto the floor, her perfectly formed chest heaving. After a minute, his senses returned to him, and he helped her to his rags, where he made sure she was settled gently but firmly, tucking his blanket around her shoulders, asking her, was there anything she needed, anything at all . . .

She cupped his cheek in one hand, thumbing his pale face. His head hurt.

"Yes, there is one thing I need. Don't cry for me, darling boy, please. I am not worth crying for."

Of course, he only cried the harder. She wrapped her arms around him then, and he lay curled next to her, his head against her stomach, forehead hidden in his knees. Buried in her side, she held him very close, running a hand through dry, straw-coloured hair.

He didn't notice the blood, stray droplets spewed upon the ground, until the next morning, when he left, left her to sleep, for she would not wake up.

xxxxxxxxx

The second week, the snow solidified. It became puffy flakes that drifted lazily to Earth, and he supposed he wouldn't have minded, where it not for the fact that they bit into his hot face and rained in such a frequency he couldn't even see the road for squinting. She had stayed inside, all that week. After the day when she would not wake up, he had caught her the next morning preparing for . . . work. He'd asked her, commanded her, finally threw himself around her knees and simply refused to let go, begging her, pleading that she stay inside, where it was at least sort of warm and mostly dry and she could sleep and rest and get better –

"Oh, stop that, you silly thing!"

She'd picked him up off the floor, dried his eyes and promised. Promised she wouldn't go out, she would get some rest.

"But if I do that for you, love, if I'm feeling better on the morrow, I've got to go back to work, you understand? We'll starve to death, else-wise."

He'd agreed, without hesitation, because she had to stay inside where she would be all right. Where she was safe. Nothing could happen to her in their little room, no one would find her and make her do those _terrible_ things that made her so bad, so ill . . .

He'd gone about his chores that day, running around, wearing himself thin. He thought about it sometimes. How he always seemed to be too hot, and yet he shivered when the cold air whispered across his bare skin; how his throat ached so badly he could hardly swallow anything but water and the soup she would sometimes make; how his head was always throbbing, his ears were always ringing, his sense of time and space and depth perception had whithered away into nothing. His face was always white, now. His eyes were sunken into the skin, which had grown hollow from his lack of appetite. He could count his ribs, if he pulled up his shirt.

And then he thought of her, and how she'd looked that morning. Her hair, once so bright and blonde and beautiful, the texture of silk and the buoyancy of foam, was now dry and crispy at the ends, a faded white. Her skin, once so rosy, her cheeks so bright, was now a washed out colour, almost blue. Her lips were no longer sunrise pink. Her voice was scratchy now, grating, once the finest, most lyrical sound he'd ever heard – like music. Her face, though still heart-shaped, was no longer round and full. Her cheek bones jutted out like mountains. Her figure, once so curvy, so round, so plump, had thinned so drastically, her breasts sagged, her hips misshappen, her belly distended. There were dark circles under her eyes that refused to vanish. Her eyes . . . they still managed to live, whenever he appeard. They would beam and glow, bringing light and warmth and comfort, if only just for him. They were still like blue ice, in appearance. They drew him like the sun.

So he pushed himself, worked harder than he ever had any other day in his life, ran extra errands, begged for jobs at a penny a piece, did all sorts of unmasterable tricks that should have been meant for someone twice his size and three times his age. He brought home nearly tripple that day what he usuallly did.

When he'd come back to the little room, he'd placed it all within her delicate little hand.

"See, you don't have to work anymore. I can take care of us. I can make enough for us both." His voice was unusually slurred.

She'd caught him as he'd collapsed in the doorway, run a hand fretfully through his hair, across his face. It was warm, and it burned. She laid him down on the mat, turned him over on his side, and he'd vommited. He hadn't had anything to eat that day. He apologized for the mess. She told him not to worry, covered him in a blanket, and he'd dozed off.

She'd nudged him into wakefullness, slipping something smooth but painful down his throat. Food, he supposed. He took all she gave him, because it would make her happy, and all he had to do was swallow. She'd let his head rest in her lap then, twining her fingers through his hair. He'd felt his eyelids flickering . . .

xxxxxxxx

The third week, she couldn't get out of bed. After the day he had spent in the room, asleep, she had not gone back out, like she'd said she would. She stayed in the house, whiter than the snow and drawn, haggered. He'd felt oldly refreshed, and so he did more work, not enough to make himself sick, but he managed to bring home enough extra to find a decent loaf of bread and a nice piece of fruit or two.

One night, she'd gone to sleep in his bed and come morning she couldn't bring herself to stand. She'd been coughing something horrible, sweat dripped from her face and covered her body in a fine sheen. She was wracked with the cold, though he gave her all the blankets and his jacket. He'd gotten everything she'd asked for, brought her everything he imagined she should need while he was gone in the day, and tucked her in and left her to sleep. He was working double, now, pushing himself just enough that he could remain standing. He had to make her see that she should never have to work again, that she was going to be all right, that he was going to take care of her . . .

The fourth week, she was in a sort of delirium, from which he could not rouse her. She was burning with fever, and yet she shivered. She would cry out into the night, pleading him not to leave her side, to take her hand please, _please_ don't ever let it go. He'd gripped it as firmly as he dared, stroking her face, trying and failing not to cry, he had to be strong, he simply _had_ to be the strong one now – he could only sit there, watch her in agony, her body becoming whiter and whiter and her cheeks flushing deep red, her coughing bouts lasting longer and longer . . .

One night, after he'd laid her head upon the pillow made from his spare change of clothes, stroked her hand until she'd gone to sleep, he'd gone out back to the pump to try and wash a bit of grime from his face, something he would do every few days. He felt dirty – he wanted to be clean. As he'd run the water, he'd found himself suddenly sitting, heavily, into the snow, soaking his pants and colder than ice, and when his hand came away from his cheek there was blood, smeared all over his fingers . . . little flecks of it, sprayed everywhere, all down his front, all over his dirty white shirt. He'd stared a full minute, just looking at it . . .

She was dying.

xxxxxxxx

The fifth week, he went for a physician. He remembered the day they had moved into the little room.

"You must never let anyone know, darling boy, understand? This is our secret. No one can ever know."

Now, he didn't care what it took, didn't care if he would have to sell himself into servituted for the rest of his miserable life. She needed someone, not just he, who was beyond not knowing what to do, to take a look at her, make sure she was all right, even if he knew she wasn't.

He'd run the length of the town and back, asking anyone if they knew of a man, cheap, who would come with him and examine a girl who was deathly ill, near dying. Finally directed to a house at the end of a street, he'd burst through the door and into what looked like a family dinner, a man, a woman, three children.

He'd begged, pleaded, cried shamelessly and kicked up a hell of fuss until the man took pity on him and followed him to the little room. The physician. brought a bag, filled with all sorts of odd instruments that he couldn't recognize, that were foreign and strange, and if any of those sharp things hurt her worse than she already was, _he was going to take them and shove them up the man's –_

The inspection had been a short one, all grim faced and tense. He'd held his breathe through most of it. The man finally looked up at him, and he wanted to scream at the look that he was giving him, because he couldn't possibly be even remotely suggesting there was nothing he could do . . .

"She has perhaps a week or so more, at the most, lad. I'm sorry."

He'd calmly nodded his head, evenly given the man every penny he owned, even though he desired nothing more than to throw the money out into the snow and tell him if he wanted it he'd better go and find it. Seen the man out the door and down the street. Returned. Ran a hand threw tossled, sweat soaked hair. He'd taken three, deep, long breathes. Counted to one-hundred, then started over again. Quietly walked the length of the room, gently opened the door, carefully pushed it back into place, wary not to make a sound.

He'd then proceeded to scream until his voice was hoarse, kicking, stabbing, punching everything he could get his hands on, ripping up boxes and slinging them against the walls of the ale house, tearing up everything and anything in sight, smashed a few kegs of old ale that had been left in the alley to rot, finally collapsed in the snow, sobbing, hiccuping, curled in on himself and just prayed that God would let him die so that he wouldn't have to watch her leave him all alone . . .

xxxxxxxx

The sixth week, she'd slipped into something that he'd once heard named as a "coma". She was breathing, very unevenly. Her heartbeat, when he'd laid an ear to her chest, was faint, and slow. Her skin was translucent. He could count the veins in her arm. Her lips were turning pale. Her eyes were blackened.

He'd talked to her, all the time she'd been like that. He'd told her how his jobs were going, about the extra food he'd gotten. He would mash up a sort of broth and feed it to her, slipped water down her throat, which she could take, without choking. He wished she would sing. She had the most beautiful voice. So he hummed lullabies to her under his breath, his voice scratched and aching and terrible, almost non-existant now. He stroked her hair and kept it nice and untangled, washed her face with water to make sure she was clean. He'd removed her clothes, hesitantly, and placed her in her finest gown, the blue one made out of real satin that shone like her eyes, and made her beautiful. He'd asked her to please, please wake up, for him, because he had to see those eyes just one last time . . .

On the third day of the seventh week, he got his wish.

xxxxxxxx

He'd been asleep, of that he was sure. He'd felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and when he'd blinked, there she'd been, her shining face never looking so healthy, never so rosy and never so smiling. She'd helped him to stand, and she was once again so round and so full and so beautiful, long blonde hair bouncing in natural corkscrew curls that fell about her shoulders. She'd wrapped her arms around him and she'd never felt so warm, never felt so happy . . .

She'd held him at arms length, eventually, gazed into his eyes, with those radient blue orbs and smoothed the hair on his head, pressed a finger to his lips, when he tried to say something, anything, for she _had_ to know how beautiful she looked, how wonderful, how she could only be heaven, standing there before him in all its glory. At length, she'd removed the finger and smoothed away his tears.

"I love you," he managed to whisper.

"And I love you, my darling boy, more than you will possibly ever know." And then she began to drift away. He'd run after her, shouting, screaming, calling her name, but she only seemed to get farther and farther away, until she disappeared entirely, all together, and he was left alone in the sudden dark. All alone.

xxxxxxxx

He hadn't moved an inch all day. Had hardly dared to breathe. Had sat, with his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them, wearing only a thin shirt and his trousers. He'd sat against the wall, too numb to shake or cry, watched the body turn a silvery white and finally a purple-tinged blue. He'd sat and stared, from sun-up to sundown, a silent vigil, never taking his eyes of the body, never breathing any more than a little, the amount needed to live, to survive. It would be unfair, selfish, to join her so soon without a proper mourning.

xxxxxxxxx

The eighth week he'd stolen a shovel. He'd buried her by the river. And then he'd turned, walked away, and never looked back.

xxxxxxxxx

On the last day of the tenth week, just when he'd finally believed he could go to join her, when he thought that all his prayers had been answered, a lord named Huntington found him lying in a ditch somewhere just outside the streets of Nottingham, had scooped him up into his arms, where he'd hung limp and unable to move. Had wrapped him up in a hundred warm furs, laid him the floor of his coach, and brought him to a place called Loxley. To a boy named Robin.

And in a way, he will reflect years later, when he is older and wiser and somewhat happier, God answered the only prayer that needed answering:

_Please, don't ever let me be alone again._

* * *

Questions? Comments? Leave a review! 


End file.
